


Snowflakes in the Attic

by Witcherology



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cousin Incest, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Flowers in the Attic, Lannister stans look away, Sexual Tension, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2020-07-11 12:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 42,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witcherology/pseuds/Witcherology
Summary: Following the sudden death of their parents and oldest brother, the Stark siblings and their cousin Jon are taken in by their Uncle Robert and their Aunt Cersei, who convince them to hide in Casterly Rock.(Or: Flowers in the Attic but make it Jonsa)





	1. Casterly Rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tweaked the characters' ages a lil bit to better suit the plot of Flowers in the Attic, they are as follows:
> 
> sansa- almost 13  
> jon- almost 14  
> arya- 8  
> bran- 6  
> rickon- 3
> 
> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3gf3WttO3r12lG3QmaW6fO

There’s no way to describe grief except to say: it is a darkness which seems to know no end.

It’s Robert Baratheon, Robb’s godfather, who brings them the news. Jon and Sansa are in the backyard, babysitting the kids, for all the servants were gone that day. Despite the cold, playing in the snow has always been their favorite past-time; and there’s little else to do in the North, where it feels like it’s always winter. So Sansa supervises Bran and Rickon’s snowball fight and shouts encouragement every once in a while, while Jon play fights with Arya, who’s gotten the notion that she wants to be a fencer.

None of them have any idea their world is about to end, believing their parents and Robb are just running a little late. But the snow falls and the sun sets and neither Eddard, nor Catelyn, nor Robb arrive. By dinnertime, they’re all clustered around the fireplace like abandoned puppies and Jon is pacing back and forth, talking to himself, when all of a sudden they hear a car in the driveway.

“They’re here!” Bran exclaims, beaming with relief. He rushes to the door, throws it open… and there is Uncle Robert, together with his wife.

Sansa knows it at once, in her bones, just from the look on Uncle Robert’s face. There are tears running down his cheeks, and he’s shaking his head, and it can’t be true, it can’t be, but then he’s saying it, and it’s real, and Sansa faints.

When she comes to, it’s to the sight of her siblings crying, of Jon trying not to, and of baby Rickon asking what car crash means. It’s a nightmare. She must still be dreaming, and when she wakes the world will be as it was again.

But if it’s a nightmare, she does not wake.

Uncle Robert informs them they’ll all be staying with him and Aunt Cersei in the South for a while, and that they must be quick if they don’t want to get taken to an orphanage and separated instead. Sansa has never set foot in an orphanage, but she knows from books and movies that they’re dreadful, bleak, dark places, full of misery. She doesn’t want to go there. Besides, she’s always wanted to see Casterly Rock and the South. Everyone always says Aunt Cersei’s family is the richest in the Seven Kingdoms, even richer than the Starks are.

Jon, however, seems to have other ideas. He protests, the way he always does, and Sansa is glad when Uncle Robert silences him with a look.

Aunt Cersei is nicer. Gently, she says to Jon, “We promise we’ll answer all your questions as soon as we get in the car, sweetheart. But now we must hurry up, before Social Services comes and separates you all.”

Sansa has no questions. If she has to choose between going to an orphanage and going to a beautiful manor down South with Aunt Cersei, she’ll always choose to go with Aunt Cersei.

So she doesn’t say anything at all while she packs up her things, still numb with sorrow and loss, doesn’t say anything during the drive to the airport or while they’re waiting to board the plane. Things will be all right, there will be no Social Services and no orphanages in their future. Only Casterly Rock. She can almost picture it already: a magnificent estate, five hundred years old at _least_ , where they’ll throw balls at night and play in the sunshine by day. Where they can be together, the five of them, together with their Aunt and Uncle and their Aunt’s family. There they will heal from all this pain, and she won’t ever have to experience it again.

After they get off the plane, they climb into yet another car. Sansa is so tired by then, she falls asleep on the way there, only to wake to the sound of car tires on gravel. Her head is on Jon’s shoulder, and her hand is holding Arya’s. She notices Jon isn’t breathing deeply: he’s wide awake, but his eyes are closed. She closes her eyes too, praying for sleep.

Then she hears low voices, and almost opens them again. Instead she listens.

“Barely made it in the nick of time…,” a woman is saying. Sansa almost doesn’t recognize her voice, it’s so different from the usual sweet tones she employs with them. But there’s no doubt it’s Cersei Lannister. “Next time don’t be so stupid.”

“Be quiet, woman,” Uncle Robert whispers, his voice unrecognizable too. It’s not the voice of their Uncle, but of a man Sansa does not know. It scares her. She searches for Jon’s hand in the darkness, knowing he’s awake too, and when she clasps it he squeezes her fingers. “I did what you asked. I got them out.”

“Still—”

Rickon coughs and sniffles, and Aunt Cersei falls silent.

As their father’s best friend, it falls to Robert Baratheon and his wife to take care of the Stark children now that their parents are gone, or so Uncle Robert told them. He told them Social Services wouldn’t see it that way and that they’d try to split them up, so they had to run but… He can’t be lying. He is… He was her father’s best friend. He’s _Uncle_ Robert. Sansa’s just being silly, she’s only scared because she’s just lost half her family. No. He and Aunt Cersei are just worried because Social Services might have taken them if they hadn’t gotten there in time, that’s all.

But Jon’s hand is so cold in hers, it makes her wonder.

It’s nearly dawn when they finally arrive at Casterly Rock. The estate belongs to the Lannisters, and as she surveys its grounds, Sansa finds herself feeling a glimmer of hope. There are gardens so vast even Arya would get tired of them, a lake for them to swim in, a forest for Bran to explore, and, of course, the manor itself, which is the closest thing to a castle Sansa has seen in her life. She can already picture herself reading in some crook at the library, the sun shining through the windows, or practising her ballet routines in a grand ballroom with a thousand mirrors all around her.

She smiles at Jon, exulting, but he doesn’t smile back. He’s stopped being Good Big Brother Jon and has returned to his usual self: Angry, Sulking, Grim Cousin Jon. Sansa lets go of his hand.

Sansa is expecting a butler to receive them, but instead Cersei barks at them, “Hurry up!” and they rush to get out of the car on their own.

Somehow, even though they’ve arrived and they’re safe now, Aunt Cersei and Uncle Robert seem to be even more stressed than before. Robert takes their luggage up the stairs leading to the entrance while Cersei opens the door quietly, and when she notices the kids are falling behind the expression on her face is one of such fury Sansa recoils. But it’s gone in a second.

“Children, please hurry,” she says softly, sweetly.

So they do.

The parlor is as beautiful as Sansa imagined; no, more: there’s a crystal chandelier on the ceiling, polished wooden floors, and an old but well-kept staircase that would put Winterfell’s to shame. Sansa is entranced for a moment and forgets herself, until Cersei grabs her by the wrist.

“Sansa, _please_.” Her grip on her is strong enough to bruise, and her eyes are fire. “We have to hurry.”

Sansa has always admired her Aunt Cersei. She looks like an actress, the kind of woman you only see in fashion magazines or perfume commercials. Growing up, she could never help but stare at her, hoping she’d one day grow up to be half as beautiful as she. Jon and Arya have always made fun of her for it, but she doesn’t mind.

Surely she must have a reason for behaving this way. She must be very stressed indeed. Adults get stressed sometimes.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Cersei,” Sansa tells her politely and sincerely.

But Cersei doesn’t hear her, since she’s already rushing up the stairs, with Robert in tow and the children not too far behind. Sansa hurries to catch up, afraid she’ll distress her again.

They lead them further into the manor, and then up and up and up and up, until they’re in front of an ancient oak door. Cersei unlocks it and they all step inside. She closes it behind her and for the first time since they’ve arrived, she and Uncle Robert seem to relax.

The room is nowhere near as large or as luxurious as Sansa hoped, but rather a bedroom big enough to accommodate two twin beds, and little else. There are cobwebs on the ceiling and dust on the furniture, but it would have to do for the night.

Well, here we are. Robert, just leave that wherever,” she instructs her husband, who’s still struggling with all their luggage. “Welcome to Casterly Rock,” she says with a radiant smile. “You must be so tired after such a long journey,” she brushes Bran’s hair with slender white fingers, her long red nails scratching his scalp until he winces. “Since I’m sure you all want to stay together after your loss, we’ve prepared this room for you. My mother, the lady Joanna, will be here soon with some food. I’ll leave you in her excellent hands.”

“Good night, children,” Uncle Robert says.

And with that, they leave. Strangely, they lock the door behind them.

“Why are they locking us up?” Arya asks immediately.

“It’s for our safety,” Sansa says. _Why else would it be?_ “Don’t scare the children, Arya.”

They look at Bran and Rickon, already exhausted from the trip, heartsick from grief, and for once they agree not to fight. Instead, Arya helps she and Jon to get them all ready for bed, although Bran protests and insists he doesn’t need help and he’s only two years younger than Arya (even though he’s put his shirt on backwards).

They’re about to turn the lights off when they hear the sound of keys outside, and the door opens.

Inside steps the spectre of Cersei Lannister, or rather an older version of her. Despite the elegance and pride to her features, there’s something predator-like about her that reminds Sansa of a gargoyle. Her hands hold a tray in a grip that makes them look like talons, but she almost drops it when she sees them. She gasps in shock. At what, Sansa does not know.

“What in the Seven Hells is this?” she asks. Her voice is old, bitter steel. “Boys and girls cannot sleep in the same bed!”

Sansa frowns. There are only two beds, so they have no choice but to share. She’s sleeping with Bran and Rickon, while Arya, forever Jon’s favorite, has chosen to sleep with him. Yet something in her voice terrifies her, so she dares not speak.

But there are only two beds,” Jon says, voicing her thoughts.

“Exactly. So you will sleep with your brothers, while the girls sleep together.”

“Why?” Arya asks. “That’s _stupid_.”

The woman steps further into the room. “Boys and girls _won’t_ sleep on the same bed,” she repeats in a tone that brooks no argument. “It’s forbidden. Girls are to sleep with girls, and boys with boys. I will hear no more about it. Switch, now. Now, I said!”

Sansa hurries to do as she says and gets in bed with Arya, despite her little sister’s protests and Rickon’s whining. Jon frowns at first, but thankfully does as he’s told too.

The woman doesn’t smile and there’s no indication that she’s satisfied other than her placing the tray on the only table in the room. It’s then that Sansa notices she’s brought them food and milk.

“A light snack,” she says in disgust, as if the task displeases her as much as having them under her roof. “You will clean yourselves before you eat, and you will eat it in an orderly fashion, at the table, not in bed. If you want to eat it tomorrow, that’s better. It will spare me the trouble of coming all this way to bring you more food. But you _will_ eat it all. Wasting food is a sin in the eyes of the Seven.”

Sansa finds herself stopping Bran and Rickon from jumping out of bed, afraid of what might happen if they attack the food while this woman is present.

“My name is Joanna Lannister. Behave yourselves, and we won’t have any trouble.”

And with that, she turns on her heel and leaves. Like Aunt Cersei, she locks the door behind her.

Thus begins their stay at Casterly Rock.

  



	2. The Rules

Fool that she is, Sansa thought last night meant the worst part was over. In truth, it has only just begun.

  


After a horrible night’s sleep—Arya is a kicker—she finds Jon in the bathroom, nursing his swollen eyes and doing a poor job of it. Something awkward hangs in the air when their eyes meet in the mirror; unlike yesterday, Sansa knows the time for holding hands and crying together is over. They’re back to normal.

  


The fact is, she and Jon don’t particularly get along. He prefers Arya over her, and she’s never minded it. He used to love Robb more, too. So did she.

  


Her eyes fill with tears when she remembers, and she turns away to wipe them on her sleeve.

  


“You’re making it worse,” she tells him, to cover up the fact that she’s crying. Then, since she knows he’s going to get defensive—Jon is a prickly thing—she adds, “Your eyes.”

  


“Oh, like you could do it better?” he snaps anyway.

  


Annoyed, Sansa steps inside the bathroom. “I can, actually. Makeup exists, you know,” she snaps back. It feels good to be angry at someone, to argue. Better than crying, anyway.

  


Jon must think so too, because he scoffs at her and crosses his arms. “I’m not putting on makeup.”

  


“Then there’s no helping you. Rubbing your eyes with water won’t hide the fact that you cried all night.” She glares at him, but seeing his face up close takes the fight out of her. He looks exhausted, as if he hasn’t slept all night, and his eyes are puffier than hers, as if he’s been crying for years. Suddenly she feels ashamed of her words, and she softens. “It’s not wrong to cry, Jon. And there’s not much you can do to hide it. Nor should you.”

  


“I don’t want the kids to see,” Jon says quietly. “I’m the eldest. I have to be strong.”

  


Sansa feels a surge of annoyance again. “You mean _we_ have to be strong. I’m the eldest too.”

  


It’s at that very moment that Joanna Lannister walks into their bedroom. With the bathroom door wide open, her eyes zoom in on the two of them right away, like a bird about to devour its prey.

  


“What are the two of you doing?!” she screeches. “Get away from each other this instant!”

  


Sansa practically runs out of the bathroom, her cheeks burning. Her heart is a bird fluttering in her ribcage, begging to be set free. There’s something in the woman’s hard green eyes that fills her with shame. Without knowing why, she finds herself flushing with embarrassment.

  


“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  


“Where are Robert and Cersei?” Jon asks Cersei’s mother. Sansa throws him a look, but he ignores her.

  


“You have a suspicious mind, Jon,” Cersei says sweetly. She steps inside together with her mother, and Sansa is so relieved to see her she almost jumps into her arms. Uncle Robert is nowhere to be seen. As if she’s read her thoughts, Aunt Cersei adds, “I’m here. And Robert is consulting with his lawyers so we can begin the process.”

  


“Process?” Jon repeats, watching the door close behind the two women with wariness. “What process?”

  


“He’s just consulting with them to see how we can arrange for you to live with us here, instead of being separated and sent to the orphanage... or worse. They’re downstairs right now, so you have to be very, very quiet.”

  


Sansa has no idea why she’s giving them that particular warning. She doubts anyone would hear them up here, in a manor as huge as this. This entire wing seemed to be deserted last night when they arrived. And she hasn’t heard any sounds at all since she woke up either.

  


“How long is it going to take?” Jon asks.

  


Cersei sits in one of the five chairs available in the room. Sansa can already sense her impatience. “It might take a while, I’m afraid,” she says. “I hope you’ll explain that to Bran, Arya, and Rickon when they wake up. It’s very important that you stay quiet and don’t cause any disturbances, or my father will kick us all out.”

  


Jon does look at Sansa then. He’s frowning. Sansa looks away, her heart pounding in her chest. Whatever is going on, she trusts Aunt Cersei.

  


“Lord Tywin does not tolerate impertinence,” Joanna Lannister says sharply. “It’s a wonder he’s putting up with you again,” she tells Cersei with distaste. “But it won’t last very long, so I wouldn’t gloat if I were you.”

  


Cersei turns white as a ghost. Sansa wonders what the woman’s words mean. She can’t imagine her Aunt Cersei ever doing something so wrong her own father would turn against her.

  


“Thank you, Mother.” The way Cersei says it, Sansa knows she means the opposite. “Did you treat them as well as you treat me?” Sansa looks at Jon, who looks back. It can’t have escaped Cersei that Joanna screamed at them both as soon as she came in. And as soon as she hears about how harshly she spoke to them yesterday, too, she will let her have it. Sansa suddenly feels a lot better. Her next words reassure her even more. “I love these children like they’re my own, you know. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to them.” She turns to them, her smile a balm over their wounds. “My mother isn’t as kind or as forgiving as I am. You have to be very good.”

  


That is a relief. Sansa is always good.

  


“They were up to something just now when I arrived,” Joanna Lannister insists. “You should have seen how they jumped when they saw me.”

  


Sansa has no idea what she means by “up to something” when all they were doing was talking, but when Joanna Lannister turns her gaze to her, all green rage, she feels herself become very small. Whatever she means, it must be very bad.

  


“Oh, Mother, please. They’re innocent children.”

“That’s what I thought about you, too,” Joanna Lannister tells her daughter, her voice as cold as all the ice in the North.

  


Cersei goes very still. There’s a chill in the air that has nothing to do with the cold.

  


Finally, she turns to Jon and Sansa and plasters on a smile. “You didn’t touch your food.”

  


Sansa doesn’t dare look at Joanna Lannister. “We weren’t hungry, Aunt Cersei,” she says meekly. “We’ll eat it as soon as the children wake up.”

  


“Which should be soon, with all this racket,” Jon mumbles. Sansa would kill him. Why can’t he just be quiet?

  


She knows they’re in for it when Joanna Lannister asks him, “What did you say, boy?”

  


“Nothing.”

  


“Nothing, _Lady Lannister_ ,” she corrects him.

  


Mercifully, she doesn’t insist any further. Instead she asks them to wake the kids, so she can tell them all about the ‘rules’. Once they’re all awake, she produces an alarmingly long piece of paper and begins to read.

  


“While you’re under my roof, there will be certain rules you must abide to. They’re seven, just like the gods. Break these rules, and you will find I am not a merciful woman. Is that understood?” Sansa nods quickly while the others yawn (Rickon) or look confused (Bran) or annoyed (Jon and Arya). Lady Lannister goes on. “Number one, the two older children will be in charge of the youngest, and will help enforce these rules.”

  


Sansa gulps. That sounds like a terrible responsibility, and one too big for Jon, who hates rules more than anything. She would have interrupted Lady Lannister to point it out had she dared.

  


“Number two, you will be quiet as mice while you’re here. You will not shout, or run, or make any kind of noise that could be heard from outside. You’ll also keep the drapes and windows closed at all times. Number three, you will not leave this room at any time and under any circumstance.”

  


It seems Jon does dare to interrupt. “Sansa and I can keep quiet, but how do you expect three little kids not to run or make noise? And how long do you think we’ll be here?”

  


Sansa thanks all her stars and all the gods that it’s Cersei who answers. “Jon, we’ll be here until we can sort out all the papers and make sure you’re all safe. It might take a while, and like I’ve said, my father must not know you’re here.”

  


“So that’s why you’re locking us up.”

  


Sansa’s as impatient as Cersei. Why can’t he understand? They must stay together or face the orphanage. Aunt Cersei is trying as hard as she can to save them, to help them. Everything she’s doing is for their own good.

  


“For your own safety, and not for long,” Cersei says. “I promise, all right? I will come here all the time, as will your Uncle Robert, and you won’t want for anything. I’ll bring toys, and treats, and anything you want.”

  


“As for making noise,” Lady Lannister says with distaste, “there’s a staircase behind that door that leads to an attic. You can go there and play. You won’t be heard there.”

  


Satisfied, Sansa smiles and nods to prove she’s the good child Jon is not and will keep the others in check. She’s rewarded with a caress from Cersei that reminds her painfully of her own mother.

  


“Rule number five: boys and girls must remain at a distance. They will never use the bathroom at the same time, nor sleep on the same bed, nor touch each other.”

  


“This is so _stupid_ ,” Arya whines.

  


“We will do as you say,” Sansa promises the old lady, grabbing Arya’s arm firmly to keep her from saying anything else. “Please, keep reading, Lady Lannister.” She ignores Jon’s glare.

  


“Number six: you will keep yourselves and this room clean and neat. I’ll provide you with the necessary items for it. As for the food I bring you, you will eat every bite.”

  


“Lastly, number seven: you will not speak nor pray to your pagan gods here. Instead you will read about the Seven who are One, and read the Seven-Pointed Star everyday. And remember that even if I’m not here, the Seven always are, and they see what evil you do behind my back.”

  


That’s not a concern for Sansa. She’s a good child who does no evil, and she’s content to pray to the Seven. Besides, she enjoys reading.

  


When Lady Lannister and Aunt Cersei leave, she feels almost hopeful. Then Arya has to open her big mouth and ruin it all, as she’s wont to do.

  


“I hate it here. I wanna go home.”

  


“We don’t have a home anymore,” Sansa reminds her. “This has to be our home for now.”

  


“ _Winterfell_ is our home. We can go back, even if…” Arya bites her lip, her eyes filling with tears. “Even if everyone’s gone now.”

  


“No, we can’t. Didn’t you listen to Aunt Cersei and Uncle Robert? If we go back, we’ll be taken to different orphanages. We’ll be separated. Is that what you want?”

  


“No,” Arya allows. A tear runs down her cheek.

  


It’s Jon who wipes it away, with a resentful look to Sansa. “It’s alright,” he tells her softly as he holds her. “We’re going to be alright. No one is separating us.”

  


“Of course not! That’s not what I meant,” Sansa says indignantly. He never understands.

  


She looks at Bran and Rickon, who’re teary-eyed too. The hole in her chest, the one that opened after Mother and Father and Robb died, tears at her and suddenly there are tears in her eyes as well. “I’m sorry,” she whimpers, “I only meant—”

  


Jon softens. “It’s all right, Sansa.”

  


He opens his arms, and Rickon, Bran, and Sansa all join in his and Arya’s hug. It’s the first time since they’ve lost the rest of their family that they’ve had time to mourn, to cry to their heart’s content, and they can’t even make a sound.

  


But it’s all right, she tells herself as she weeps as silently as she can. Aunt Cersei will take care of them, and they’ll be out of here in no time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at:  
> twitter: @[witcherology](https://twitter.com/witcherology)  
> tumblr: @[witcherology](https://witcherology.tumblr.com/)


	3. The Promise

Lady Joanna doesn’t come again that day, and they go to bed without dinner. Sansa wonders whether it’s a punishment of some kind, and if it is, what it’s for. Is it because the Starks are pagans who don’t worship the Seven? Or is it simply because they’re here in Casterly Rock, and Lord Tywin mustn’t find out? Whatever the reason, Sansa promises herself that she’ll do her best tomorrow, so she isn’t a bother to Lady Lannister. Perhaps if she’s very good, and if she makes the kids and Jon be good too, the old woman will come to love them a little, and then she won’t be so harsh on them.

After all, that’s how it works in the stories: bitter old men and women eventually succumb to the charms of darling good little children, and everyone lives happily ever after.

Although this thought cheers her, Sansa finds she cannot sleep. Hours go by with nothing to mark their passing: not the chiming of a clock, nor the ringing of a telephone, nor the creaking of floorboards, nor the whispers of servants. It’s as if the house is dead. Worse, it is always dark: Sansa only realizes dawn has come when the tiniest, faintest tendril of light creeps in through a gap between the heavy drapes and the window by her bed. Morning is here, but their room is still black as night.

Frightened and in need of something to do to distract herself, she gets up and, feeling her way around in the dark, makes her way across the room until she finds the bathroom door. There are no windows in the bathroom, so it’s safe to turn on the light in there. She does, and feels her chest untighten with relief.

She takes her time in the bath. Lady Joanna did say she wanted them to be clean. After this she’ll tidy up the room, she decides, and make her siblings bathe as well. Everything will be perfect by the time Lady Lannister gets here with breakfast. Her stomach aches at the thought of food. She’s so hungry after going so many hours without eating.

Once the water is cold, she climbs out of the bathtub, combs her hair and dresses in her best clothes, and then proceeds to wake up her siblings (which takes more than a little work) and Jon so they can all follow her example. By then a little light filters through the curtains, so they’re not in complete darkness, but the kids still beg her to let them sleep five more minutes. It takes Jon and Sansa’s combined efforts to drag them out of bed.

While Jon gets them ready for their baths, Sansa begins to clean up. There’s very little to clean, in truth, so when she’s done she sets about making the beds and making everything as neat as she can.

Everything—and everyone—must be perfect by the time Lady Joanna gets here.

“Jon, remember the boys and girls can’t bathe together,” Sansa admonishes when she catches him rushing both Bran and Arya into the bathroom. “Or use the bathroom at the same time.”

Jon rolls his eyes at her. “Who’s gonna see? The Seven?” he says the last part with a wicked grin for Bran and Arya, who both laugh.

Sansa has no idea what’s so funny. How can they laugh, when they have an old crone who’ll bite their heads off if she discovers what they’re doing behind her back? Or who might barge in and catch them at it? Why aren’t they as frightened as she is?

No, it’s not fear, she reminds herself. It can’t be fear, you’re safe here. _You’re just nervous and upset because you’ve lost Mother and Father and Robb too._

“Bran, you go with Rickon,” Sansa insists. “Arya, wait for your turn.”

Delighted to have an excuse not to have to bathe first, Arya squeals and—perhaps for the first time in her life—does as Sansa says. Sansa thinks Jon will mock her again, but instead he stares at her, his expression unreadable.

She doesn’t know what to make of that look.

She’s still thinking about it when Lady Joanna arrives.

Sansa jumps to her feet, smooths down the wrinkles in her skirt, and says good morning. She immediately turns and gives the others a meaningful look, until they’re all saying good morning in varying degrees of excitement: exceedingly, suspiciously happy (Jon and Arya), tired and sleepy (Bran), and incoherent (Rickon).

Lady Lannister pays them so little notice, they might as well be talking to a rock. All she does is set down a picnic basket on the table, then produce a volume Sansa recognizes right away as a copy of The Seven-Pointed Star. It seems she truly expects them to read it.

“Here’s your food for the day. It has to last you all day, so be sure to not be wasteful, because I’m too old to climb up all these stairs every time you brats need to eat.”

Something in her voice, her words, sends shivers up and down Sansa’s spine. No adult has ever frightened her so. _She’s only an old woman_ , she tells herself. _Don’t be so silly. It always starts out this way in the stories, too._

“Thank you, Lady Lannister,” she says, avoiding the woman’s hard green eyes. “We will eat everything properly, of course.”

“That goes without saying,” Lady Lannister says harshly. She shows them the copy of The Seven-Pointed Star she’s brought with her, brandishing it like a weapon. “This is The Seven-Pointed Star, the written word of the Seven who are One. I’ll bring more copies later, so each of you can have one, as you should. You will read this every day, and think on it. Is that understood?”

Sansa gulps. “Yes, of course, Lady Lannister. Jon and I will read to Rickon and Bran, they don’t know how to read yet.”

She expects Lady Lannister to be pleased by her idea, by her demeanor, by the way they’d all been clean and had everything tidy when she’d arrived, but she is sorely disappointed when the only expression Joanna Lannister makes is one of mild disgust.

“‘Jon and I’?” she repeats, sickeningly, dangerously sweet. Then her voice changes again, to one that is dripping venom. “You mean you and that bastard cousin of yours?”

The silence is too much to bear. It tugs at Sansa like an insistent child. She wants desperately to break it, to make it all okay again, but all she manages is to open her mouth and close it again like a fish.

Jon is the one who breaks it. “You are the one who left the two of us in charge, if I recall,” he says. It’s true, but Sansa wishes he would keep it to himself. The truth will not help them here. And sarcasm can—no, will—get them in trouble, she’s certain.

Indeed, the look in Lady Joanna’s eyes hints at danger. “Are you talking back to me, bastard?”

Jon bristles, and he’s about to say something back, something stupid, no doubt, but then Bran grabs a hold of his hand and Jon shuts up. It’s not enough, though. Jon is still furious, and he and the old woman are glaring at each other so, it’s only a matter of time before one of them explodes.

She has no idea what to say to fix the situation, to cut the tension in the air, but then, like one of the fairy godmothers in a story, Aunt Cersei arrives, an angel in a red dress. She comes bearing presents, too, several plastic bags in each perfectly manicured hand, and oh, Sansa would weep in gratitude if she dared to cry in front of Lady Lannister.

“Leave them alone, Mother,” Aunt Cersei says lightly. She looks better than yesterday, more refreshed, and she’s stunning in her clearly brand-new crimson dress with matching heels. “Children, I have gifts for you all!”

Lady Joanna gives Jon one last blazing look before she turns on her heel and leaves, slamming the door shut behind her.

With her usual tact, Arya wastes no time in telling Aunt Cersei, “Your mother is horrible.” _She has the manners of a stablehand._ If only Aunt Cersei and Uncle Robert had a daughter… Sansa’s sure she wouldn’t have been anything like Arya. And then Sansa would have a friend here. “I want to get out of here. When can we leave?”

For a second, Cersei scowls—then it’s gone, replaced by one of her most radiant smiles. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes, however. “Sweetie, you know we can’t leave until the lawyers are done talking to your Uncle Robert.”

“But _why_?” Arya insists. “Why can’t we wait somewhere else? Why does it have to be here?”

“Because, Arya, this is the safest place for you right now. Now look at what I’ve brought you.”

Sansa is relieved when Arya lets the subject drop, distracted by her shiny new toys.

But of course, when it’s not Arya disturbing the peace, it’s Jon. “If Casterly Rock is so safe, why do we have to stay inside this room? And why can’t your father know we are here?”

Cersei looks as impatient as Sansa is anxious. “We’ve already explained about the orphanage. You have no remaining family except yourselves, and none of you are over seventeen. You need legal guardians, and that process takes time—”

“You’re not answering my question,” Jon interrupts.

Cersei rises to her full height. She’s taller than Jon, and in that moment she towers over them all, as imperious and angry as a lioness.

“You’re not letting me, Jon. Enjoy your gifts. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

Once she’s gone, Sansa grabs Jon and spins him around so that they’re facing each other. She barely realizes that they’re touching, which is forbidden, but right now she doesn’t care.

“What did you do? You’ve made her mad!” she whispers to him, so the others don’t hear. They’re so distracted with their new toys, it’s probably an unnecessary precaution. “We need Aunt Cersei and Uncle Robert. And she’s already explained why! You’re just angry because Lady Joanna called you a bastard,” she sniffs, feeling genuinely sorry for him.

Jon stares at her for a long, long time. “Let go of me.”

Sansa does, but only because she knows they’re not allowed to touch.

* * *

Thankfully, they don’t have to wait another day to see their Aunt Cersei. She visits them again that very night, soon after they’ve had their meagre dinner of cold soup and sandwiches (which was a chore to get the kids to eat). Cersei’s exchanged her gorgeous crimson dress for an emerald robe and slippers, as if she, too, is getting ready for bed. Sansa wonders where she’s sleeping.

“I came to wish you good night. And to apologize.”

She looks so sad Sansa does run and hug her this time. Aunt Cersei freezes at first, then wraps her thin arms around her back. Cersei smells of perfume and wine, completely unlike her mother, but her embrace still reminds Sansa of her.

“Oh, sweet Sansa,” her Aunt says when they break apart. “You’re always so kind. And so… So quick to notice things,” she sniffs. A single tear runs down her cheek. “Come, children. Come to your Aunt Cersei.”

Bran and Rickon are as eager as Sansa to hug her, but Sansa thinks it has more to do with a desire to be held and comforted than a desire to comfort their Aunt. Jon and Arya remain where they are. They have never been very close with Aunt Cersei.

“We are all struggling right now, aren’t we?” Cersei says softly. She pats Rickon’s head with such motherly affection Rickon clings to her all the harder. “First we lose our dear Ned, Cat, and Robb, and now we’re stuck here…” She pauses, sniffles, and rubs the tears from her eyes. “I know what it’s like to feel trapped inside this house. My mother is a cruel woman, and she hates me so. And my father… who knows if he’ll ever forgive me.”

“Why? What did you do?” Arya asks, in the same way one might inquire after the weather.

Aunt Cersei pales. “I will tell you, all in due time. You must understand this is all,” she chokes on her words, a sob rising to her throat. “So very hard for me…” 

Sansa nods. She understands, of course she understands. Aunt Cersei must know that. “We understand, Aunt Cersei. Please don’t cry.”

“Truly?” Cersei asks, green eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Yes,” Sansa says. She pats Rickon and Bran in the back so that they’re soon echoing her words. “We understand.”

To her relief, Aunt Cersei gives her a small smile. “You’re an angel, Sansa. As are the rest of you.” She smiles at each of them in turn, not caring that Arya has her arms crossed or that Jon is putting on his Grim Cousin Jon act. “Jon, please, come here. I’m sorry I lost my temper. You have every right to ask questions, and I will answer them, I promise. Can you all, in turn, promise to be patient?”

“Yes, Aunt Cersei,” Sansa and Bran say as one. Rickon says nothing, but he’s a baby who barely understands anything that’s going on, so he doesn’t count.

“What about you, Arya? Jon?”

Arya scowls, but faced with her siblings’ pleading stares, she nods her assent, to Sansa’s relief. Only Jon is left.

“I’ll be… patient,” he says slowly, “if you promise to answer every question we ask you sincerely.”

Cersei brightens up instantly, almost as if she’d never been upset at all. “I will, I promise. And I’ll also visit you every day, and bring you anything you like so that you won’t get bored, not for one second. We will all be out of here in no time, and then we can go on vacation anywhere you like. Once my father forgives me, we will have all the money in the world, and you’ll be able to buy _anything_. Piles of diamonds, private islands, castles, nothing will be too expensive for m—you. For us.”

That does sound nice. Sansa has never known poverty, only wealth, but not the kind of wealth Cersei speaks of. She could own a _castle_ , go anywhere, be anyone. She could dance all day and all night and be a prima ballerina like she always dreamed.

It’s all so dazzling, no one speaks for a while.

“Yes. My family’s so rich it’s insane,” Aunt Cersei goes on, that green glint in her eyes brightening even more. “And all their wealth can—no, it _will_ —be passed down to me when Father dies. Then, we will be free to do and be who we please. And you won’t have to fear Social Services or any orphanages anymore.”

“I don’t understand how anyone could hate you,” Sansa says.

Cersei smiles at her, but the smile does not reach her eyes. “Some people only know how to hate, dear Sansa.” Her eyes shadow. “My mother is one of those people. And my father too. You must remember to do as she says, no matter what. Obey all her rules. Listen to her. Promise?”

It is a night for promises, Sansa thinks. After they promise Aunt Cersei they’ll obey her mother, Sansa comes up with a promise of her own.

She waits for the kids to fall asleep before she slips out of the bed she shares with Arya and approaches the boys’. She’s used to the darkness and the room now, so she can tell Jon’s already awake, grey eyes open and fixed on her.

“What do you want?”

Sansa tries not to take the hostility personally. “To apologize. For calling you a bastard.”

Jon sits, careful not to disturb Bran and Rickon beside him. “Okay. Anything else?”

This isn’t going how Sansa expected it to. “Jon, please,” she whispers. “We’re the oldest, and we’re in charge of Bran, Rickon, and Arya. We have to work together.”

Jon looks as if he’s about to argue, but at the last moment he lets out a heavy sigh, like he’s releasing all his anger and resentment in a single breath. “Fine.”

“Promise?”

Jon looks at her, puzzled and annoyed. “Can I go back to sleep?”

“No. You have to promise. Swear it by—” she lowers her voice even more, afraid that somewhere, somehow, Lady Lannister is listening to her about to blaspheme, “the old gods and the new. Promise me that you, Jon Snow, will help me, Sansa Stark—”

To her surprise, Jon cracks a smile at that. “You’re a strange one, Sansa Stark. All right, I promise.”

It’s the first time since she’s been here that Sansa has felt happy.


	4. The Attic

The process must be taking longer than they expected, for the hours stretch into days and finally into a full week. Thankfully, Aunt Cersei keeps her promise, and she visits them every day, bringing them all manner of toys, clothes, and books. There are pointe shoes and tutus for Sansa, toy swords for Arya and Bran, plushies for Rickon, and records and a record player to play them in for Jon (“to play in the attic,” she tells him with a wink; Jon says thank you and never uses it.). Meanwhile, Lady Joanna brings them food, toilet paper, soap, towels, trash bags, and, of course, more copies of the Seven-Pointed Star, which Sansa does her best to encourage everyone to read.

Of Uncle Robert, however, they see not a sign.

“He’s with the lawyers,” Jon explains for the upteempth time to a restless Bran, while Sansa brushes Arya’s hair. She’d brush Rickon’s too—the Seven know he needs it—but she’s afraid Lady Lannister will barge in and catch them.

Ordinary people would have no objections to a twelve-year-old girl simply brushing her baby brother’s hair, but Lady Lannister isn’t an ordinary woman. She’s the kind of woman who enjoys opening their door a crack every now and then, as if expecting she’ll find them doing something wicked. She’s constantly asking them if they’re being good, too, and if they’re refraining from touching members of the opposite sex. Yesterday, when she caught Bran and Arya play fighting, as they like to do, she gave them all such an earful Sansa couldn’t sleep all night.

“ _ What _ lawyers?” Arya asks. At eight, she’s already more defiant than Bran and Rickon combined, and smarter than any eight-year-old has a right to be. “I don’t think there are any lawyers. Have you heard anyone downstairs?”

Sansa resists the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s a huge mansion, Arya. They’re probably in a different wing.” Why can’t she realize she’s making everything worse with her endless questions and negativity? Sansa stops brushing her sister’s hair. It’s as good as it’s going to get, anyway. “Go read The Seven-Pointed Star.”

“No. You read that stupid book if you want.” With that, she runs off towards the third door in their cramped bedroom, throws it open with a bang, and climbs up the stairs that lead up to the attic.

“Arya!” Sansa calls after her.

All they’ve seen of the attic so far is darkness, the one time they dared to go up there. It had felt like a cruel jape: they can make all the noise they want in there, but only if they’re willing to risk their health and safety, as the place is cold, damp, and full of vermin. Still, they can’t leave Arya there alone.

Wordlessly, she and Jon follow her up the stairs and begin calling her name. Rickon and Bran trail after them like lost puppies.

The last time they were here, Sansa hadn’t allowed any of them to open the old curtains that cover the windows, as it is against the rules, but Arya’s disobeyed her and the light gives the attic a warm, almost homey glow. It looks like something out of a storybook, and Sansa forgets all about Joanna Lannister and her husband and the lawyers and the orphanage for once.

Arya is sitting on the window’s ledge. In this light the pallor she’s acquired since being confined fades into a sunny radiance.

“I’m not going downstairs,” Arya announces. “No one can see us up here anyway,” she adds defensively, crossing her arms.

“All right.”

Arya looks so shocked at her words Sansa would be afraid she might fall over if she hadn’t known the window was closed.

“All right,” Sansa repeats. “Let’s look around. And we can keep the curtains open here, as long as you promise not to open the ones downstairs.”

She hasn’t seen the sun in a while, so Sansa stands before the window for a moment. She can see Casterly Rock’s grounds below, the beautiful gardens, the lake, and even a fountain she hadn’t known was there. The sight fills her with longing. She hasn’t been outside and breathed fresh air in seven long days.

“There’s no one down there,” Jon points out, appearing right next to her. “We’ll be safe.”

Sansa nods. Like Arya said, it’s too far up for anyone below to see, anyway. After a long while, she turns around and seizes up the attic.

It doesn’t look as menacing now that it’s bathed in light, and she can even appreciate it. It is the biggest attic they’ve seen in their lives, larger than an apartment or Winterfell’s dining room, just feet and feet of space waiting to be explored. It smells of dust and mildew, but Sansa does not care, and she doubts her siblings do either. It’s new, and it’s exciting, and there’s so much to see, it feels almost as good as being outside.

So they explore. They find boxes upon boxes of clothes and books and pictures and discarded junk, and mannequins, and trunks and suitcases, and old uniforms from battles fought long ago, and rusty jewelry, and music boxes, and paper, and garlands, and couches and armoires and a mattress and other old furniture, and white plastic trees that almost look like weirwoods… All discarded, all lost, all abandoned, as forsaken as they are.

They also find rats and other vermin, both dead and alive, which makes Sansa squeal and Jon and Arya howl with laughter.

“If we are going to come here often, we should clean up,” Sansa says after she’s recovered. “It’s not safe for the kids.”

“Agred,” Jon says.

So while Arya, Bran, and Rickon play downstairs, the two of them set to work. They scrub the floors, dust the furniture, air up the mattress and every sheet and clothing item they find, and clean the cobwebs off the ceiling. Jon even puts the dead rats and the vermin inside a garbage bag. He also finds some traps he lays around so he can catch the live ones, for which Sansa is eternally grateful. It takes them days, but by the time they’re done, the place looks almost hospitable.

By then, though, they’re all growing sick of being locked up, even Sansa, who’s tried so hard to be good for Aunt Cersei.

The children have even taken to banging the door with their tiny fists or kicking it, even Arya, who’s the oldest. It takes all of Jon’s energy and Sansa’s patience to explain to them why they can’t do that, but there’s only two of them and three kids, and every day that passes seems longer than the one before.

“I want outside,” Rickon screeches one day. “I’m tired of inside. Outside, now!”

He begins to cry and howl, so loudly Sansa and Jon look at each other instinctively, and she knows in that moment they’re both thinking the same thing: they can’t be heard, or the consequences will be dire. She does not know what those consequences will be, but she fears for Rickon. They have to get him to shut up.

But then Bran takes up the cry too. “I’m tired too. You two are so mean. You don’t let us do anything. You’re always telling us to keep quiet and you won’t let us go outside and I want to climb trees and see the gardens! This is a huge mansion, why can’t we just go?”

And then, to top it off, Arya joins in as well, “Bran is right. I’m tired of this room. Let’s just force the door open.”

Jon nods to Sansa.

“We can’t do that,” she tells them. “If we do, we’ll be taken to different orphanages and separated!”

“That’s a lie Cersei told us and you were stupid enough to fall for it,” Arya says at once. It hurts worse than a slap to the face.

“It’s  _ not  _ a lie!”

“Sansa,” Jon says urgently.  _ Now’s not the time _ , his eyes say. “Arya, Bran, Rickon, stop screaming. Let’s go to the attic now and talk there, okay?”

They all shut up at once. Sansa can’t help but resent Jon a little. They never obey her the way they do him.

Once in the attic, the protests start up again, but at least they can’t hear Joanna Lannister below, which means they haven’t alerted the whole manor. Sansa breathes in relief.

“I want outside,” Rickon is saying through his tears, “And Momma.”

Sansa swallows. She knows what she’s about to say is wrong, but she’s also twelve and has no idea what else to say. They’ve tried everything to explain to Rickon that his Mom and Dad and oldest brother are gone, but nothing seems to work.

“Pretend I’m your mother for now, Rickon,” she tells him sweetly. “And Jon can be your father.”

She fears Jon will reject the idea and give her a look of disgust, but instead he crouches so he can be of a height with Rickon and says, ever so softly, in a voice Sansa did not know he was capable of mustering, “Yeah, buddy. I’ll be your Dad from now on. Okay?”

Rickon sniffles. “Okay.”

They give him a tight hug; by the end of it, Sansa is trying not to cry. She wants a mother too.

Arya crosses her arms in defiance. “I don’t want you to be my parents. My  _ real  _ parents are dead.”

Bran looks between them as if he can’t decide what to do. Finally he jumps into both their arms. “It’s just pretend,” he whispers.

“Of course, honey,” she says, running her fingers through his hair. Then, brightening, she adds, “It can all be pretend. We’ll make it a game.”

“A game?” Arya asks suspiciously.

“Yes. Lady Lannister will be the wicked witch,” she says, feeling naughty. She doesn’t know what possesses her to say it, but the words begin to spill out of her mouth one after the other, “like in a fairy tale, and we’ll be the children who’re trapped by her. We can’t be caught, not ever, so we must follow all her rules. But up here we’ll be free. Up here we’ll have our  _ outside _ ,” she emphasises the last part for their benefit. “It will be just like Winterfell. We’ll have our trees, and snowflakes, and we can even have snowballs to fight with.”

“There is no snow here,” Arya points out.

“It’s  _ pretend _ ,” Bran says, as if Arya is an idiot. “Right?” he asks Sansa, while Arya sticks out her tongue at him behind his back.

“Right,” Sansa beams, aware that everyone is watching her, even Jon. “We have paper here, tons of paper to make snowballs and snowflakes with. We have tape and line to hang them up with, and plastic trees for the weirwoods. We can ask Aunt Cersei for whatever else we need.”

Jon grins at her. “That’s a great idea, Sansa.”

It takes them more than a week to set it all up. They spend their time cutting snowflakes out of the paper sheets they find in the attic, making space to set up the trees, while Rickon and Bran make snowballs out of the paper they won’t be using (since it’s the easiest task), and finally hanging the snowflakes from the ceiling beams. They also hang some lights Arya finds in one of the trunks, and light them up when they’re done. Some of the lights don’t work, but it looks beautiful nevertheless. Like an enchantment. Like Winterfell. Like a dream of home.

“See, it’s not so bad,” Sansa tells them all when it’s done, believing it. “Just a few more days, and we’ll leave. Aunt Cersei says she’ll take us anywhere we like.”

Jon sits on one of the boxes, denting it. Sansa wrinkles her nose at that, but resolves not to say anything to him. She’s found it only encourages the kids to fight amongst each other and to talk back to them when they see the two of them bickering.

“I’d go  _ anywhere _ ,” Arya murmurs from her place beside Jon, “as long as it’s far from this place.”

“Me too,” Bran says sulkily.

Sansa and Jon’s eyes meet, coming to a silent understanding. “I’d go to the Wall,” Jon says as brightly as he can. “I’ve always wanted to see it. They say it’s higher than the sky!”

“And I’d go to King’s Landing,” Sansa inserts with a smile and a caress for Rickon. “It’s the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, and it has a  _ castle _ .”

Rickon grins from ear to ear. “Can go where we want?”

“Yes, honey, anywhere in the world. Aunt Cersei’s parents are very rich. Richer than us. We’ll have billions and billions of golden dragons,” Sansa explains. “Why do you think she brings us all those expensive gifts? The Lannisters have so much money they can never spend it all.”

That makes Bran perk up right away. “Really?”

“You stupid, wasn’t that obvious? Did you see the house?” Arya frowns. “It’s weird we never saw any servants, though. Billionaires have servants.”

“Oh, what would you know,” Bran argues back.

“More than you!”

“Stop squabbling,” Sansa says absently. It  _ is  _ weird they never saw nor heard any servants… They only see gardeners on the grounds and servants coming in and out of the adjacent wing. Perhaps the ones in this wing have been sent away, to protect them. Aunt Cersei would certainly go to any lengths to keep them safe, she’s sure. That’s what she keeps in mind when doubt comes creeping in or fear grips her heart: Aunt Cersei and Uncle Robert are doing their best, and this is only temporary.

If only the process wouldn’t take so long, and Cersei’s father wasn’t so cruel and they were allowed outside, it would all go over more smoothly. But there’s no point dwelling on it, not when her siblings already spend so much time being depressed about it. She needs to stay positive.

She has to be like her mother, and she has to keep working as a team with Jon, like her mother used to with her father.

Miraculously, inspiration hits her again. “We should ask them to imagine how they would like to spend all the money we’ll have,” she whispers to Jon. “They’ll like that.”

Jon’s forehead pinches, the way it does when he’s thinking hard. It seems to be a great effort for him. 

“Maybe,” he allows. “What would you spend it on?”

“Me? I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. It’s unlike her, but she hasn’t been thinking of the future at all. She’s been too focused on the here and now, on how to keep this boat afloat. “I don’t know.” The old Sansa would have known right away, though. All that girl wanted was to leave the North, come South, and spend her life in luxury. And that old Sansa existed only a few weeks ago, before her parents and Robb died. The realization leaves her dizzy.

Perhaps sensing her distress, Jon answers, “I’d spend it on a dog.”

That startles a laugh out of Sansa. She’s absurdly grateful to him for it. “A _ dog _ ?”

Jon smiles. “Not just any dog, though. The  _ most expensive _ dog on the planet! And I’ll hire the best trainers to teach him to obey only me. He’ll be good to the kids and play with them, and I’ll even let you brush his hair if you want.”

“So generous.” And it is. Has Jon always been so kind and patient? “Thank you, Jon.”

“For what?”

“Cheering me up.”

She’s rewarded with another smile; a lopsided one, which means he’s truly pleased. “You’re welcome.”

Perhaps these days of sorrow can go by fast after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at:  
> twitter: @[witcherology](https://twitter.com/witcherology)  
> tumblr: @[witcherology](https://witcherology.tumblr.com/)


	5. The Rooftop

As the days go by, they begin to develop little routines, small ways to make time pass faster, to keep themselves entertained.

First they learn every inch of their cramped bedroom, which is always dark and musty, littered with childrens’ clothes and toys that Sansa has to pick up every morning before Lady Lannister barges in. There’s two windows they can never open and three doors, one of which they can never open either, for it leads outside and that means it’s always locked. Then, there’s a set of dining chairs and a table that’s barely big enough to accommodate the five of them; a dresser that’s squeezed between their two beds, and a lamp on one corner that’s the only light they are allowed to turn on, as it’s very weak and cannot be seen through the thick draperies.

The bathroom is more fun. Inside all the lights can be turned on at any time, and there’s a large bathtub which provides hours of entertainment: Sansa bathes Arya there when she’s too groggy from sleep to protest, and of course, she herself spends countless hours floating in that tub. There’s little else to do, after all, and it’s a way to pass the time.

She must be the cleanest girl alive.

Up in the attic, though, that’s where they spend most of their time. Playing, shouting, running, dancing, reading, drawing, or simply exploring. Jon also unearthes the record player Cersei gave him and they play records, while Sansa practises her routines in her new ballerina slippers and Rickon imitates her clumsily.

They try on the old clothes and uniforms they find in the attic, too, playing at being soldiers in the war or at being kings and queens, or enacting entire plays out of the books Cersei brings them. The kids don’t always want to act, though, often preferring to be spectators, which leaves Jon and Sansa as the actors. The plays are many and varied: comedies, tragedies, and of course, Sansa’s favorites, the romances: they play at being Duncan and Jenny of Oldstones, Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight (Sansa’s favorite), Florian and Jonquil, the Night’s King and Queen (Jon’s favorite, because there’s violence), Durran and Elenei, and many more.

One time, sick of acting, Jon goes on stage covered from head to toe in a costume so dusty and moth-eaten he looks like a ghost, frightening everyone but Arya, and causing Sansa to ban it and throw it in the garbage pile.

But the best—and most dangerous—form of entertainment comes in the form of Lady Lannister. While Sansa is terrified of her at first, Jon is not, and he revels in having little jokes at her expense. One day, the old woman gets it into her head that she wants to know if they’ve been reading about the Seven and saying their prayers every day, so Jon responds, “Of course. Seven times a day, so we’re holier.”

Unconvinced, Lady Joanna presses on, “Do not think to mock me, bastard. Quote the Stranger’s Book for me, now.”

Sansa’s hands tremble then, but Jon looks confident. “Revenants cannot harm a pious man, so long as he is armed by his faith,” he says, suppressing a smile. “Shall I quote the Crone’s Book next, Lady Lannister?” His face is so innocent you’d never think he was making a joke. Sansa herself struggles to keep her face straight after that.

Lady Joanna never asks him to quote scripture again. She does ask Sansa, though, but Sansa has such an excellent memory she manages to recite more than ten verses of every single book every time, so she gives up on the whole enterprise soon afterwards.

The only way to spend their days, they find, is to take it one minute at a time. To not worry about the future or the past, to simply  _ be _ . That’s how you survive. Jon and Sansa arrive at this conclusion after one of their many, many, many conversations.

There’s so little to do, they find themselves talking a lot now. At first, it’s over family decisions: you bathe Bran and Rickon first, I’ll go after; let’s have the sandwiches for dinner instead of lunch this time; Rickon misses his mother, will you go or should we go together? And things like that. Then, slowly, their talks shift to other topics: what Aunt Cersei was wearing today (another new dress, always), why Uncle Robert isn’t visiting, how much longer the process would take, why the mysterious Tywin Lannister doesn’t want them there, and so on.

Most of their conversations take place in the attic, while the kids play around them. Jon drags the mattress so they can lie in it near the window, basking under the sun while they talk. It’s the highlight of Sansa’s day. The children come to them with their fears and anxieties all the time, but the two of them have no one to confide those things to but each other. Everyone needs someone like that, Sansa thinks.

Something changes between them up in that attic. Whatever it is, Sansa doesn’t dislike it.

* * *

The incident with Arya and Bran takes place one cold grey morning.

It’s a day like any other, with Sansa brushing her hair and humming to herself while Jon bathes Rickon, when all of a sudden she realizes she hasn’t heard Arya or Bran’s voices in a while, which is strange. Leaving the hairbrush on the bed, she hurries up the attic stairs and finds… nothing. No sign of either of them anywhere she can see: not in their mini-Winterfell, not in the back with all the boxes and trunks and old junk, not in the corner where Jon plays music and Sansa practises ballet… they’re simply not here.

“Bran? Arya?” she calls. Her voice echoes in the huge attic, her siblings’ names calling back at her in her own voice, mocking her. Her pulse quickens. “Kids? Are you here?”

No response.

“JON!”

Jon is there in seconds, his hands wet and his forearms covered in soap. “What’s wrong?” he asks immediately. Sansa must look terrible, because soap and water and all, he still grabs her shoulders gently. “It’s all right. Tell me what it is, and we’ll fix it.”

“Bran and Arya,” she sobs.  _ I should have kept a closer eye on them. _ “I don’t know—”

But he understands right away, even through her incoherent sobs. He surveys the attic quickly, then whirls around, his eyes wide as saucers. “Sansa.”

He’s pointing at the window.

The world stops in that second, as Sansa takes it all in: the open window, the breeze coming in, the curtain fluttering…  _ I told Arya it was all right. _

Jon squeezes her arm. “I’ll go.”

Sansa shakes her head. “No, no, no, no.”

She forgot. She thought she could live in peace sequestered in here, that she’d be safe with Aunt Cersei to look after her, that they’d all be, but she was wrong.

She watches in terror as Jon pokes his head out of the window. She’s still paralyzed when he steps onto the ledge and begins to climb out of the window and onto the roof, carefully, as if he’s moving in slow motion. Terrified, she tries to step closer, to stop him, but she can’t. All she can do is hear his voice. She has no idea what he’s saying, only that he sounds angry. Then, after an eternity, he gets back inside, his face dark with anger.

“Get in here  _ now _ ,” he says to someone outside the window. “NOW, I said!”

Sansa weeps with relief when Arya climbs inside, followed by Bran.

“We were just sitting on the rooftop, Sansa,” Bran says pleadingly. His cheeks are rosy and his hair is a mess, but he’s unharmed. “You know I like to climb...”

Sansa doesn’t care what they were doing. They’re safe, they’re alive, they’re here, that’s all that matters. She wipes the tears off her face with one hand and rushes to embrace them.

“Tell him not to be angry, Momma,” Bran whispers into her hair. He’s taken to calling Sansa that sometimes, usually when he’s upset or sleepy. At six, he’s more than old enough to know Sansa’s not his mother and never will be, unlike Rickon, who seems to have forgotten both his parents, but Sansa doesn’t care. It’s just pretend.

Arya, on the other hand, will never consider Arya or Jon to be her parents, no matter how old she is. “Ugh, you’re suffocating me, Sansa.”

“Maybe she should,” Jon chastises her. “What the two of you did was reckless and dangerous. You must promise never to do it again.”

“I promise,” Bran says. Sansa knows he’s lying, but she doesn’t care right now. She just squeezes him harder, all her worries and sorrow forgotten in the embrace.

After she lets go of them and they leave, she jumps into Jon’s arms. Surprised, Jon hugs her back, tentatively at first, then more tightly once he realizes she hasn’t stopped crying. Sansa thinks this is the first time they’ve hugged, just the two of them. She has no idea what’s possessed her to do it, knowing it’s forbidden and all, all she knows is she’s tired and broken and she needs Jon to  _ understand _ .

“I’m sorry,” she sobs onto his chest. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t watching them. I broke our promise.”

“You did not,” he says, sounding surprised that she’d even consider it.

“I did. We were supposed to work together. You were watching Rickon, I should have been minding those two. And I was, I was listening from downstairs. But I should have been here. I just never thought—”

“I know. Neither did I. It’s  _ not  _ your fault, Sansa.” He disentangles from her embrace and holds her firmly by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. “It’s not your fault, do you hear me?”

“It could have been so much worse. They could have fallen and died. Or someone could have seen them and reported them to the authorities, or to Lord Tywin, and then we’d all be on the streets.”

“But nothing happened. They’re safe. We’re safe. Yes, Sansa, don’t make that face. Listen to me. You do everything you can to make us all happy, to keep us all in check, including me. Don’t think I’m not grateful. But even you can’t prevent accidents. No one can.”

“I just… I thought we’d be safe in this place. But we’re not, are we? We’ll never be safe again. We’re orphans now.” It’s the first time it’s sunk in, she realizes, feeling guilty and ashamed. Not just for herself or her ghosts, but for Jon and his: Jon’s been an orphan for far longer than she has. She’s insulting him again. “I’m… I’m sorry, Jon.”

But Jon gives her a smile. A weak one, but a smile nonetheless. “Don’t. I know how it feels. It’ll get better,” he adds.

Sansa doesn’t think it will, but she thanks him all the same.

* * *

As the weeks turn into months, Sansa begins to lose track of the time, but Arya makes sure to remind her: on the third month, she leads Jon and Sansa up to the attic and shows them the calendar she’s made with chalk.

  
“Every day I come up here and carve another cross on the wall,” she explains proudly.

Sansa Stark, Eddard Stark and Catelyn Stark’s daughter, Robb Stark’s sister, the girl that existed three months ago, would have been horrified. Sansa, the girl in the attic, is only afraid. Cleaning and decorating is one thing, but what if Lady Lannister finds out they’ve been damaging her property?

Jon seems to have other concerns. “Three  _ months _ ?!”

Sansa gives him a look she knows he’ll be able to interpret right away. Lately they’ve been able to communicate with their eyes, like her own parents used to. It’s almost as if they’re real parents.  _ Don’t make her more upset than she already is,  _ her eyes say.  _ Then send her away _ , Jon says with a gesture.

“Arya, go play.”

“I’m not a baby!”

“Listen to Sansa,” Jon tells her. Arya gives Jon a reproachful look and stomps off in a fury. They hear her close the door to the attic with a bang. “Sorry, it just slipped out. But… three months?”

“I know it seems like a lot, but—”

“It doesn’t  _ seem  _ like a lot, Sansa, it  _ is  _ a lot. Three months! Shit!”

She’s about to tell him not to swear when she remembers they’re the only ones up here.

“If it’s been three months, then… That means I’m already fourteen. My birthday came and went without any of us noticing.” He doesn’t sound sad, merely disturbed.

“And I’ll be thirteen soon…” One step closer to womanhood, and her mother won’t be here to celebrate it with her. The thought makes her infinitely sad.

“We need to talk to Cersei  _ and  _ Robert,” Jon says. “It’s been long enough.”

This time, Sansa has to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a very short chapter, so i'll probably upload the next one tomorrow. til then!


	6. Cersei's Tale

It takes one more day for Cersei to visit. Lately, she’s not been visiting them as often as she used to. She brings sweets with her, which delights the kids, but does little to placate Jon. Even Sansa feels a little irritated with her. She smells like wine. She always does these days.

_ Three months. _

“Go to the attic,” Jon tells the children, who regard him with wide eyes before gathering their treasures and hastening to obey. They always listen to him, especially now that he’s like a father to them.

Cersei watches this from her chair with curious green eyes, and Sansa is reminded of a lioness at rest, flicking her tail.

“Aunt Cersei, we need to talk to you,” Sansa says cautiously once the kids are gone.

Cersei’s smile does not reach her eyes. “Of course, my sweet. What about?”

“It’s been three months since we first came here,” Jon says at once, with none of Sansa’s delicacy. “Three  _ months _ . In all this time we’ve never gone out, nor opened the draperies, nor smelled any fresh air, nor felt the sun shine on our faces.” The last part isn’t strictly true; they often drag the old mattress to the window up in the attic and lay there for hours, to bask in the sun that filters through the dirty windowpane. “We haven’t even seen Robert. Where is he?

And we are tired of being in here. There must be some other place we can go, Cersei. You can’t keep us locked up in one room forever.”

After he’s finished saying his piece, the silence is so heavy and Cersei’s eyes shine so brightly Sansa fears she is going to slap Jon. Then, to her immense surprise, her Aunt bursts into tears. Jon looks as bewildered as Sansa feels when they glance at each other.

It takes Cersei a moment to collect herself. Sansa hands her her own handkerchief, the one her mother made for her. It’s pale grey, with her initials embroidered in blue and red. Cersei wipes her tears and blows her nose with it.

“Oh, thank you, dear. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She begins to cry again, the tears leaving pink tracks in her face, ruining her makeup. “I’m trying my best, I really am,” she sobs. “But if you knew…”

“If we knew what?” Jon asks impatiently. Sansa elbows him. Can’t he be a little kinder? She’s clearly in pain.

“You wouldn’t forgive me,” she sobs into Sansa’s handkerchief. “You wouldn’t ever look at me the same if you knew what I did.”

Sansa crouches so she can take her Aunt’s hand and look her in the eyes. “That’s not true, Aunt Cersei. Whatever it is, we will not judge you.”

Aunt Cersei smiles at her, and pats her head. “You are such a sweet child, Sansa.” Her grip on Sansa’s hand tightens. “But I need you to  _ promise  _ what I’m about to tell you will not leave this room.”

Sansa stands, frowning, and glances at Jon. Jon is frowning as well.

“We promise,” they say in unison. They need to find out what this is about. What it is that’s keeping them in this room.

Cersei sighs and wipes her tears once more. Sitting on her chair, even though she’s been crying, she looks as if she’s sitting upon a throne holding court, with Sansa and Jon as her subjects.

“You have to understand my family is very… peculiar. And strict. So very strict. We have a legacy, you see,” she begins, her voice distant and wistful. “And legacies must be protected at all costs. There cannot be any scandals, or any mistakes, and failures are not to be tolerated. All my life I’ve been told I had to succeed, to marry the best man possible and be the best woman I could be—educated, polite, well-mannered, beautiful, pious, pure… In short, I had to be perfect. And in order to achieve that, I had to marry Rhaegar Targaryen, my father told me.”

Sansa gasps. That was Jon’s father! She risks a glance at Jon. He’s gone as still as stone.

“But I didn’t want to be pious. I hated religion. You’ve met my mother. All the time she insisted I kept my body pure, that I did not think sinful thoughts, that I did not touch any members of the opposite sex, or myself, and so on. I was forced to read The Seven-Pointed Star every day and know it by heart. It was torture, especially when I was around your age.”

Sansa gulps, knowing what happens ‘around their age’. Her mother had explained it to her, a lifetime ago. Her body is already changing, as is Jon’s. Soon enough they’ll start experiencing other things, too. Suddenly she is afraid.

“It all started around then,” Cersei continues. “I had two brothers. Jaime and Tyrion. No one treated them the way they treat me, because they were men. Father would take Jaime into his study, take him hunting, take him to business meetings, take him everywhere.”

_ She sounds so bitter _ , Sansa thinks. Completely unlike the Aunt she knows.

“Jaime is my twin, and looks exactly like me,” Cersei reveals. “I hated the way we were both treated so differently, even though we were the same. One soul in two bodies.”

Something about the way she says that makes Sansa feel strange. One soul in two bodies… Like Jenny of Oldstones and Duncan. It almost sounds as if… 

“Like I said, my family could not tolerate scandal, and if I was to marry Rhaegar, there could not be  _ any  _ scandal. But I was young and always trapped inside this house, just like you, and the only man I ever saw was my twin. What did it matter, anyway, I thought, since no one would ever find out?” Cersei laughs bitterly. “But someone did.  _ Your  _ aunt,” she tells Sansa, with so much hatred, Sansa forgets the rules and moves closer to Jon, pressing against him. “She  _ saw _ us, and she told Rhaegar, my fianceé. And there was no wedding after that.”

Jon is white as a ghost. “She saw… what?”

Cersei’s smile is poison. “Haven’t you figured it out?”

“You and… Jaime,” Sansa whispers. “You were…”

“Lovers, yes. Does that shock you?”

Sansa says nothing. She can’t even imagine it.

“We were both disinherited quietly, but my parents, not wanting to attract too much attention, married me off to that oaf you call an Uncle first. They would have married Jaime off too had he not been a man.”

Sansa lets out a deep, long breath. She’s known Aunt Cersei all her life, and she’d never imagined this was her story. Cersei had lived trapped in this house. All her life, Sansa had thought Cersei’s life must have been a fairytale, as beautiful and sweet as she was, and Uncle Robert her Prince Charming. How wrong she’d been.

The person before her is not the Aunt Cersei of her childhood, of three months ago. That one had not been real, she’d only been a story. This, Sansa thinks—this bitter woman that reeks of perfume and wine—this is the real Cersei Lannister. And Sansa isn’t sure that she trusts her.

“So there you have it. The reason Lord Tywin hates me, the reason he cannot know you—the family of the people who ruined his precious legacy—are here, and the reason we cannot leave: I have to earn back his trust so he can add me to his will again. But here’s the good news: he’s also disinherited my other brother Tyrion, so he has no more heirs. And he has to give the money to someone.”

“Couldn’t he just… give it to a distant relative?” Sansa asks.

“You don’t know my father. He hates charity more than anything. He’ll give it to me. You’ll see.” Her eyes are green and triumphant, as if she’s already the heir. Then her voice and demeanor change and she’s the Aunt Cersei they know once more. “Now, remember what I told you cannot make it out of this room, all right? You cannot even tell your siblings. You promised. And like I promised, I answered your questions truthfully.” She looks at Jon meaningfully. “Did I not? So now you must keep your promise, and wait patiently while I work at getting us all out.”

“Yes, Aunt Cersei.”

After she leaves, Jon tells her, “She never told us where Robert is.”

Sansa opens her mouth to parrot back the same line they use on the kids—the one about the lawyers—before she realizes it’s Jon, and there’s no need to. She sighs heavily, not knowing what to think anymore. She wants to believe in Aunt Cersei, she does, and her story is so tragic and romantic, a tale of forbidden love… But it’s also worrying. The Lannisters don’t just hate Cersei, they hate  _ them _ . The Starks. Simply because they’re related to Lyanna.

The thought of Lyanna gives her new cause to worry—what if they know Rhaegar is Jon’s father?

“Jon,” she says quietly, delicately. “Is there any chance they know… about… Um…”

Jon makes a face. “Rhaegar?” he asks with contempt. He’s never cared much for his father. “No, I don’t think so. Only Uncle Ned knew, and Aunt Catelyn. And you and Robb. Not even the kids knew.”

“That’s true…”

“She called him an oaf,” Jon says, eager to change the subject. “She said, ‘that oaf you call an Uncle,’ about Robert. I always thought they didn’t get along, but I didn’t realize she hated him.”

That’s true. Sansa hadn’t realized either. Should they be concerned about that as well? The Aunt she’d known had always been so kind and gentle, she’d never have imagined such words would leave her mouth. “She must still be in love with her… with her brother.”

Jon makes a face. “Do you think it’s true?”

“Who’d make something like that up?”

“Hmm. What do you think he’s like?”

“She said he looks just like her. So handsome, blonde, and green-eyed, I’d imagine.”

He rolls her eyes at her. “That’s not what I meant.”

Despite their pact, sometimes he can still be a pain. Sansa rolls her eyes at him too. Two can play at that game. “I know. I was joking. And why do you want to know, anyway?”

“It’s just… it’s been so long since we last saw other people.”

He’s right. The closest thing they have to seeing people that aren’t each other and the two Lannister women are the old photo albums in the attic, where the people are small and grainy and do not talk. As for real people, they sometimes spy gardeners and other servants from the windows, and have even managed to learn their daily routines and when they all take the day off: the seventh day of the week, so they can go to the sept and pray.

As for herself, Sansa is growing tired of praying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at:  
> twitter: @[witcherology](https://twitter.com/witcherology)  
> tumblr: @[witcherology](https://witcherology.tumblr.com/)


	7. The Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!

Their fourth month of confinement begins with a flurry of activity in the usually sleepy mansion. Servants come and go, carrying mattresses, carpets, curtains, covers, and tablecloths, which they air outside and carry back inside. Every day heaps of boxes arrive in trucks, and the kids play at guessing what’s inside: Bran imagines there are toys in them, Rickon believes there are animals inside, and Arya says that that many boxes can only be for food.

These days they think about food a lot. The only food they ever eat is cold, after all, and it’s always the same. Sandwiches and salad and mashed potatoes and milk and soup, and never enough to keep you full or satisfy you. It drives the kids crazy, and it drives Jon and Sansa crazy trying to get them to eat it.

Sansa can’t help but resent Cersei more by the day. Especially when her thirteenth birthday comes and all Cersei brings her is yet another tutu, and one that’s too small for her besides. Can’t the woman see she’s growing up?

“I should be grateful,” she tells Jon later, once they’re alone together in the attic. “She remembered my birthday, and she brought me a gift. Yet all I feel is anger. There must be something wrong with me.”

Jon, whose own birthday came and went without anyone remembering it, least of all him, turns on his side so he’s facing her. Sansa suddenly feels ashamed of what she’s said, and even more so when tears prickle her eyes. Jon brushes them with his thumbs, and says soothingly, “There’s  _ nothing  _ wrong with you. Your kindness and your optimism have kept me sane in here, Sansa Stark. It’s perfectly normal to be a little selfish sometimes, you know? It’s not a sin, whatever that mean old hag might say.”

She smiles. She has no idea how to thank him, how to tell him it’s him who’s kept her sane up here too. So she ignores the voice in her head that tells her what she’s doing is forbidden and a sin and comes closer, rests her head on his chest, and puts her arms around him. She can breathe again when he puts his arms around her and pulls her closer.

* * *

As time passes, Cersei’s visits become more and more infrequent. Arya’s birthday arrives, followed by Bran’s, and it’s only then, on the third week they’ve gone by without a visit from their Aunt, that she deigns to grace them with her presence. To her credit, she remembers both of their birthdays and, delayed as she is, she brings presents for both of them.

Somewhere in the back of her head, Sansa wonders if it means anything that she never brought Jon anything for his birthday.

It’s during this particular visit that Cersei lets the matter of the party slip. She’s drunk—as she often is these days—when she says, “There’s gonna be at least two hundred guests. I think. Probably more, knowing my parents. Why anyone would feel the need to celebrate their marriage, I don’t know, but here we are.”

Jon and Sansa exchange a look. The kids have gone upstairs to play with their new toys, Cersei seems as happy as Cersei can get, and it appears to be the perfect time to ask.

So they do. “Can we come?”

That sobers her up. “No. Of course not.”

“Please, Aunt Cersei,” Sansa begs. “We’ve been locked up in here for months, and we haven’t asked you for anything. This is the only thing we want to do. We haven’t seen other people in so long. Please! We’ll hide somewhere and we’ll be quiet as mice, and no one will know we’re there.”

Cersei regards them with glassy eyes. “I suppose it would be entertaining if my mother were to stumble upon the two of you while she’s there. Quite the anniversary present.” She smiles in a way Sansa’s never seen her smile before. It makes her look like her mother Joanna. “Very well, you may go. I know a liquor cabinet that’s never used, you’ll fit in there. But you’ll have to go after the kids are asleep. I’ll come pick you up at eleven, when everyone’s having dessert, and I’ll take you to the ballroom.”

A  _ ballroom _ ?! Sansa must be grinning like a fool. She’s not only going to see other people, she’s going to see beautiful gowns and jewels and, what’s more, dancing. Precisely the thing she loves most in the world. It’s a shame she won’t be able to join in, but at least she’ll listen to the music, and more importantly, she’ll be out of the room, if only for a little while.

Jon seems to be of the same mind, as he keeps checking his watch throughout the rest of the day. They tell the kids nothing of their plans, out of compassion. They’d asked Cersei if they could go as well, but she’d refused, saying she was risking enough by bringing the two of them.

After dinner and once they’ve put Bran, Arya, and Rickon to bed, Jon and Sansa slip out from under the covers and wait for Cersei to arrive. She’s already drunk when she stumbles in, so much so that she fumbles with the keys for a long time before she manages to open the door.

“Let’s go,” she says, slurring her words. “Follow me and be quiet.”

There’s no honey coating her words now, all pretense dropped. Sansa and Jon follow her through the mansion in silence, taking everything in. The wing their room is in appears to be abandoned, just like they’d speculated all this time: every door they pass is closed, the floors are dull and dusty, the very air smelling of neglect.

After going down three flights of stairs, however, things gradually begin to improve.

The third floor seems deserted as well, but is in better condition, with mahogany wainscotting and beautiful paintings lining every wall. They can hear the sounds of the party from here, which causes Sansa’s heart to beat faster—it’s been so long since she’s heard other people, let alone seen them.

When they get to the second floor she’s amazed at how clean and sweet the air smells, as if there are fresh flowers in every corner of the hallway. Every surface is polished and gleaming, and the few furnishings they see seem as antique as they are beautiful. Up here the voices and music from the party are louder and more distinct. Sansa’s heart beats and beats and beats against her chest, but whether it’s out of excitement or out of fear, she cannot tell.

By the time they reach the first floor, they’re in too much of a rush to take anything in. Hidden behind Cersei, they sneak into the empty ballroom unseen, and before they can say thanks she’s shutting the door to the cramped cabinet they’ll be spending the night in.

“Be quiet, and leave before one o’clock,” she hisses.

With that, they’re left alone in the dark, surrounded by dusty liquor bottles, their bodies huddled together. Sansa knows her neck and her back are going to hurt in a few hours, and she’ll have cramps all over tomorrow.

“How long until dinner ends, do you think?” she asks Jon in a whisper.

Jon is so close Sansa can smell the toothpaste on his breath when he answers, “Maybe a half hour or so. Cersei said they were having dessert. And you know grown ups always take their time after they’ve eaten.”

That’s true. That always exasperated Sansa when she was little. It drove Robb mad too; he used to sneak out with her and play during parties. Then, after Jon came to live with them, he replaced her with him, and she was not allowed to join them in their adventures. How she’d resented Jon then.

She glances at him now. He’s fourteen and already he’s older than Robb was when he died, and his voice is cracking constantly, like Robb’s used to. But that’s where the similarities end. He’s dark where Robb was fair, his eyes grey instead of blue, his hair brown instead of auburn. It seems so silly, how she hated him then. He’s the only one she can rely on now.

Sure, she still has her siblings, but they’re little and they’re terrified. Jon is the closest thing to an older brother that she has now.

“What?” Jon asks her.

And although they’ve been talking more and more lately, sharing their thoughts and desires, Sansa finds herself flushing, embarrassed at having been caught staring and unable to explain why. “Nothing.”

She tries to focus on looking at the ballroom, but she can feel Jon’s eyes boring into her, and it’s making her nervous. Finally she asks him nervously, “What.”

He looks away. “Nothing.”

“I was thinking of Robb,” she says quietly, because she needs to say something. “I miss him.”

“Me too.”

They look at each other then, blue eyes meeting grey, but before they can say anything, the doors to the ballroom burst open and the partygoers come in one after the other. The orchestra starts playing and soon enough they’re dancing or chatting as servants dressed in fine uniforms pour champagne into delicate crystal flutes.

Sansa takes note of all the beautiful dresses and sparkling jewels, promising herself she’ll own hundreds like them when she’s free. She pays attention to the dances, too, the waltz and the foxtrot and all the rest, so she can copy them in the attic later. She even eyes the drinks, wondering what they taste like. It doesn’t matter; she’ll have anything she wants once Cersei is back in her father’s will and the matter with the lawyers is sorted. Most of all, she watches the people, their faces, how different they all are from the ones that she sees every day.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” she asks Jon.

“No, but maybe we can pretend.”

Sansa grins. “What’s the lady with the dead fox saying, then?”

A woman with a faint moustache and large ears who’s wearing a fox pelt on her shoulders opens her mouth to speak to the man next to her. Jon says, in a falsetto voice, “My lord, I do declare, if you don’t stop clenching your teeth I’ll leave you for your brother.”

Sansa giggles like a girl. Then, seeing the man is opening his mouth, too, she hurries to say in deep tones, “What’s that  _ thing  _ on your shoulders, my lady?”

“Robert’s back hairs,” Jon answers without skipping a beat. Then the man turns around, so that he’s facing their cabinet directly and they can get a good look at his face. He has a strong square jaw and harsh blue eyes. Jon gasps. “That’s Stannis Baratheon! Robert’s brother!”

“Really?”

“Yes. He’s a lawyer. He handled my case when your parents took me in.”

“Then he must be handling ours, too,” Sansa says, feeling her spirits lift. Finally, some tangible proof that her Aunt Cersei is telling the truth. “Can you see Robert anywhere?”

They both scan the crowd, searching amidst the dancing couples and the people gathered together talking in small groups. At last, Jon says, “Over there, by the fireplace.”

Sansa recognizes him at once. He hasn’t changed at all in the last six months. If anything, he’s grown fatter, his beard longer and more unkempt. But he looks happy as he talks to a pretty young woman Sansa does not know, a woman that is not his wife. Sansa watches them closely, and gasps when her Uncle puts his hand on her waist, and slides it down, and down, and down… 

Where  _ is _ Aunt Cersei? What if she’s seen what Uncle Robert is doing?

Suddenly, the music stops. From another set of doors a couple comes striding in, a tall, elegant old man with a full beard to make up for the lack of hair on his head with a handsome old lady on his harm. She looks so different, it takes Sansa a moment to recognize her—it’s Joanna Lannister, the same sour old woman that brings them meals and checks on them every day. Under the light of the chandelier she looks charming, as regal as a queen. Sansa and Jon exchange a glance. They know the truth that hides beneath the surface.

“That must be Lord Tywin,” Jon says when the old man that’s holding her arm comes closer. He’s not smiling, and Sansa senses that he never does. His lips are not made for it. “Cersei’s father.” And their jailor.

He certainly looks the part. His face is cruel, with cold green eyes and a severe brow made for scowling. Sansa cannot imagine what it must be like to see him angry, if this is what he’s like at his own anniversary party.

Suddenly, his cold eyes turn to where they’re hiding, and it’s almost as if he’s seeing them. Sansa searches for Jon’s hand in the dark, her pulse an unsteady rhythm in her ears. Jon squeezes her hand reassuringly, and Lord Tywin’s eyes turn to the crowd.

“We should leave now while he’s making his speech,” Sansa whispers. She’d like nothing more than to stay, but every wonder of their visit has turned sour with that stare. Fear, she’s found, is an all powerful, all corrupting force.

Jon doesn’t argue. They wait, and when the moment is right they open the cabinet doors as quietly as they can and sneak away.

It’s a strange feeling, knowing there’s a whole world outside the narrow space they inhabit now, and that it breathes and exists without them, not knowing there’s five children hidden away upstairs. Sansa cannot explain why, but something about that frightens her. It’s almost as if they’re not alive.

She hides behind Jon as he leads the way upstairs. Under different circumstances, it would have been fun, like playing hide and seek in Winterfell; as it is, however, every sound and shadow feels sinister. If they get caught, they might get sent away, separated, or worse. Sansa shivers just from remembering Lord Tywin’s eyes.

Step by step they make their way up the manor. They’re in the hallway of the second floor when they hear the moans.

“Not here,” a woman is saying. “Someone might see…”

“Don’t worry, sweet sister,” a man says, “everyone’s downstairs.”

Jon and Sansa look at each other. Even in the dark, she can tell his eyes are wide as saucers, and his expression mirrors hers. That voice is Aunt Cersei’s, and that man is definitely not Uncle Robert.

‘Sweet sister’ he’d said. It can only be Jaime, her twin. Sansa inhales. From here, she can only imagine what they’re doing. She hears the sounds of kissing and pleasured gasps and moans, but she can’t see them unless she peers over Jon’s shoulder just so.

Jon seems to be rooted to the spot. He won’t budge, not even when Sansa touches his shoulder and whispers in his ear that they should go. It’s as if the sight in front of him has him transfixed. When Sansa finally dares to look, she understands why: Cersei’s head is tipped backwards, so her white throat is exposed and the blonde man that’s grabbing her can kiss it as his leisure. Their bodies are pressed as close together as they can, but her skirts are up to her waist, and they’re moving in unison, as if… 

Sansa looks away and tugs at Jon’s sleeve forcefully. “Let’s go!”

He obeys without offering much resistance. Up the stairs they go, and up again, until they can breathe again once they’re safe inside their jail.

The first thing they both do is check the kids are still asleep and safe in their beds. They are. Everything else seems to be in order as well. Relieved, they sink into their chairs and look at each other for a long moment.

“Why did you stop?” Sansa asks him in a whisper. “What if she’d seen us?”

Even in the dark she can tell he’s embarrassed. “She didn’t see us.” He stands. “I’m going to explore the mansion while I can.”

“What?” Sansa asks, alarmed. Has he gone mad? “No, you’re not.”

“We may need to escape this place one day,” he says reasonably, gently. Sansa hates it when he takes that tone with her. She can’t ever refuse him anything when he does. “And when we do, we’ll need to know how to get around, not just how to go to the ballroom.”

“You need to get here before Cersei or Lady Lannister come check on us,” she warns him.

He smiles disarmingly and kisses her hand, like he often does during the plays they reenact for the children. “Fear not, fair Naerys. Your Dragonknight shall be back forthwith.”

Sansa blushes, regretting that she’d told him she’d always fantasized about being princess Naerys and having her own Dragonknight. Months ago, she would have thought he was mocking her. Now, she knows as clearly as he does that in this moment, they understand each other perfectly. He’s soothing her worries as best he can.

Sansa can’t laugh, though. “Come back soon,” she tells him, grabbing both of his hands in hers. “I don’t like to be alone here without you.”

Jon kisses her on the forehead. A light, tender, chaste kiss, the kind a knight might bestow on his lady. “I’ll be back before Cersei gets here, I promise. Don’t be afraid.”

There is no controlling fear, though, not once it’s taken root. Sansa can’t rest that night, thinking of where he might be, what will happen if he’s caught, what they saw Cersei doing with her brother, of Jon kissing her hand and calling her Naerys, of all the times he’s kissed her hands before in their plays… 

Suddenly she’s being shaken awake by a pair of strong hands. She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she doesn’t remember hearing or seeing anyone come in. The only light in the room is turned on, and it casts a ghostly glow on Cerse’s features.

“Where’s your cousin? Where’s that  _ bastard _ ?” Cersei asks, her voice unrecognizable. She’s wearing a magnificent gown of golden satin, but her hair is tousled and her furious expression makes her look ugly. “Tell me now or I swear to the Seven I’ll whip you and all your siblings, girl!”

Sansa has no time to consider. The door opens at that moment and Jon wanders in, oblivious as to what’s happening inside. Sansa wants to warn him, but Cersei is in front of him before she gets the chance to open her mouth.

“Where in the Seven Hells were you?” She curses. “You know what? I don’t care what your excuse is. This is the last time any of you will leave this room, are we understood? If I were my mother, I’d whip the both of you for this, but lucky for you I am not. We will put this behind us, but never presume to ask anything of me again after what you’ve pulled tonight. You told me I could trust you, and look how you’ve repaid me.”

“But Aunt Cersei—” Sansa begins. She can’t mean what she’s saying, she’s only angry.

Cersei whirls around to face her, and the look in her eyes causes Sansa to recoil, terrified. “Did I ask you to speak? Keep quiet, you insipid little fool.”

There’s a dark look on Jon’s face when he steps forward. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

And then it happens.

Cersei slaps him. The sound reverberates through the room like the roar of Sansa’s heartbeat.

“Never betray me again,” Cersei warns, giving each of them one long, hard look before she leaves.

Sansa waits to hear the door lock before jumping out of bed and running to Jon’s side. His face is cast down, so she has to cup his chin and lift it to look him in the eyes. She lets out a breath when she sees his mouth is bleeding, his lip split open by the force of the blow.

“Jon,” she whispers, caressing his cheek with trembling fingers. It’s what her mother used to do to comfort her father, she recalls. “Are you…”

He grabs her hand, pulling it away. “I’m fine.”

“Let me clean your wound.”

To her relief, he acquiesces, and they pad to the bathroom. She shuts the door closed, careful not to make a sound. Her pulse is quick and her breathing uneven; with a start, she realizes she’s crying.

“Don’t cry, Sansa,” Jon tells her hoarsely. He wipes her tears with his hands, but it’s no use. They keep falling, and falling, and falling. “Shh. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Sansa sniffs. What would she have done if something had happened to Jon?

“I can’t believe she hurt you,” she whispers.

They’re very close, so close Joanna Lannister would definitely reprimand them if she were to see, but she’s not here. She’s not here, and she can’t see them.

Sansa looks up at him, at his kind eyes, at his poor injured lip. She wipes the blood with her thumb, gently, the way he’d brushed away her tears.

“She hurt  _ you _ ,” she says, because she wants to remember. She can’t forget what Cersei Lannister could have taken from her. “She said she’d whip us.”

Jon grabs both her hands in his and kisses them. “She won’t. It's okay.”

Sansa nods through her tears, and all her worries melt like snow when he hugs her. For a moment she remembers Cersei and her brother, and what they’d seen today, but she’s too tired and grief-stricken to make sense of any of it.

It’s best not to think about what any of it means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the chapter was worth the wait! Also, I really need a beta reader, preferably someone whose native language is English. If anyone would like to help lemme know. love you guys 💖💖


	8. After the party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the long wait and the short chapter! I'll try my best to write faster so the next one is up asap. And thank you all for your comments and your support, you really keep me motivated. :D

They go to bed very late that night, and it feels like only minutes have passed when Lady Lannister slips in with their basket of food. Normally, she wakes them all up with talk of the Seven and of the holiness of work, but she must be tired too, because she leaves without a word.

Sansa breathes in relief. All night she’d tossed and turned, waiting for the old woman or Cersei to barge in with a rod or a whip or something worse, to punish them for what had happened last night. When she had managed to sleep, she’d been plagued by nightmares where they were cast out of the mansion or beat bloody, or both. Even now that she’s awake, she has to check her body for bruises, to make sure that she’s all right. She can’t quite believe no one will hurt her after what’s happened to Jon.

Immediately, she slips out of her bed and pads to the boys’ side, where Jon is still fast asleep, bless him. Sighing, she kneels down before him and brushes the curls from his forehead as gently as she can. A part of her wonders why she’s doing this. The other part reminds herself she doesn’t want to wake him too abruptly, after everything that’s happened.

Jon stirs in his sleep, and Sansa gets a full look at his face. His lip is a ruin, but what is worse is the bruise that has appeared where Cersei slapped him. There’ll be no hiding it from the children, Sansa knows, and already she’s thinking of what to say to them when suddenly Jon opens his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles groggily.

Sansa moves as if he’s burning and she’s caught fire.

“N-nothing.” She can’t offer him a better explanation, because she has none. So, trying to hold onto what’s left of her dignity, she tells him the truth. “I’m afraid.”

His eyes are very, very dark, all traces of sleep gone. “Me too,” he confesses.

She stands up and offers him a hand. “Let’s have breakfast. We can talk later.”

They share a small breakfast of cold milk and soggy cereal, saving the real treats—the cookies and the toast—for the little ones. Sansa eats absently, her meal punctuated by Bran’s snores and Rickon’s sleeptalking, by Arya’s deep breathing and by Jon scratching at the beginnings of a beard. He doesn’t have much hair yet, only dark peach fuzz, but Sansa is certain it won’t be long until he starts shaving it.

The bruise stands out like a wine stain against it, and Sansa’s fingertips reach out to touch it on instinct. But Jon turns his face away.

Jon’s voice cracks. “Sorry, it’s just — ”

But Sansa can see that it’s not  _ just _ . His face is flushed, as if he’s running a fever, and when she holds his wrist to check his pulse she finds his hands are sweating. What happened last night must have upset him even more than he let on.

As for herself, Sansa can’t believe she ever trusted Cersei Lannister.

Every moment she’s terrified the woman will burst in and hurt one of them again, or separate them, or tell Lady Lannister what they’ve done. This morning part of her relief had had more to do with the fact that Lady Lannister did nothing to them than with anything else.

She holds his hand, to calm both Jon and herself. His are very hot and sweaty. “Do you think it’s true what she said?” she asks him quietly. “About never letting us out again?”

He squeezes her hand and sighs. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t gone exploring — ”

Sansa clamps her free hand over his mouth. “Don’t say that. It’s  _ not _ your fault, Jon Snow. Do you understand me?”

Jon nods, Sansa’s hand still covering his mouth. His eyes are smiling now. Sansa removes her hand, suddenly embarrassed.

“I understand you,” he says. He sounds amused. “How were you expecting me to answer with your hand on my mouth?”

But Sansa is in no mood for games. The time for playing is done. “Where did you go after you left?”

Jon opens his mouth, and just as he’s about to tell her, Arya announces that she’s hungry. So Jon gives Sansa’s fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll tell you later,” he promises, then lets go of her hand.

They rush to give the kids their breakfast and then get them ready to go play, and before an hour Bran is playing ‘in the attic’ (Sansa knows that means he’s climbing the roof again) while Arya entertains Baby Rickon.

Meanwhile, Jon and Sansa head to what has slowly turned into ‘their’ corner of the attic, a cranny where they’ve shoved the old mattress in. They lie down together in front of the window, basking in the sunshine, talking as quietly as possible. Originally they’d meant for the kids to lie down together with them so they can get some sunshine, and they used to do it, but these days they prefer to play in the dark. (Or on the roof, in Bran’s case.)

“It was terrifying,” Jon tells her in a hushed voice. “It’s an old house, Sansa, and you know how Winterfell was so old it felt it was alive sometimes? This one is the opposite of that. It feels  _ dead _ . Completely dead. The rooms I visited were so dark you could barely see, the floorboards and the doors didn’t creak like they do in any house, the lights weren’t warm, there weren’t any nice or pleasant smells inside. There was furniture, the most expensive kind, but opulent and huge and clearly there because it was the fanciest thing they could find and not because the owners  _ loved  _ it.” There’s a pause, and his voice takes on a hollow tone when he adds, “There’s no love in this house, no warmth.”

Sansa listens as if in a trance, absorbing every detail.

“But there  _ is  _ money,” Jon says. “Pearls, silver, gold, jewels, old books, you name it, they have it. There’s nothing in the world they don’t have,” he adds bitterly, and Sansa knows he’s not talking about the money.

Sansa searches his face, looking for something comforting to say to him. She hasn’t had a moment to think about it before then, but it occurs to her that he’s been through so much in his short life: his parents’ deaths, having to adapt to living in the Stark household, losing his Uncle and Aunt and the boy who was like a brother to him; and of course, being locked up with them, eating cold food every day, never seeing the sun or leaving the room, and now this—getting hurt by one of the people holding the keys to their freedom.

Perhaps there simply isn’t anything she can say.

She wants to weep. She’d trusted Cersei, had wanted to grow up to be like her. Now she’d trade anything to be as far away from her as possible.

“Think about it,” Jon goes on. His expression is livid. “While we’re rotting in here, they’re out there throwing parties, going on vacations, living their lives, enjoying everything we’re missing out on!”

Sansa’s thrown aback by his rage. “I know, Jon,” she says softly, her fingers caressing the cheek Cersei slapped, as soothingly as she knows how. It’s what her mother used to do when her father seemed upset. “I know.”

“I don’t want to hear you defend her ever again after this.” 

That’s a low blow, and unfair, Sansa thinks. Does he truly think she would, after what she did to him?

“I wasn’t going to!” she snaps, hurt and a little angry. “Do you really think that little of me?”

She doesn’t wait for his reply. She turns on her heel and leaves.

* * *

The rest of the day passes by even more slowly than usual, as if even time is waiting for Cersei to come in and punish them. A small part of Sansa, a part she’d rather not acknowledge, the one that still believes in fairy tales and knights in shining armor, wants so very badly for last night to have been a nightmare. Maybe that’s why she was so angry at Jon. She’d rather love Cersei, for the alternative is too terrifying to imagine.

But Cersei never arrives that day, nor the day after, nor the day after that. Sansa doesn’t know what could be worse: her prolonged absence, or her presence.

A full week goes by without any sign of her, then another, and slowly Sansa gets used to the terror she experiences every time the doorknob turns—and which only subsides when Joanna comes in, without Cersei in tow.

She makes up with Jon, simply because she has no other choice, nobody else she can turn to for comfort or for help, and they begin spending time together again. They never speak of the party again, nor of what happened afterwards.

It’s all going well, all things considered, until the night Arya shakes her awake.

“What is it?” Sansa asks, not without irritation. Sleep is one of the few ways they have of passing time.

The irritation subsides when she takes a look at Arya’s face, at the panic etched there. Her sister has never looked as small or as frail as she does in that moment, every trace of defiance and confidence gone.

“It’s Bran. He fell.”


	9. The Fall

The day Bran falls is perhaps one of the most difficult days Sansa’s had to endure in her short life. She’s known pain, she’s known loss, but she hadn’t known sheer unimaginable terror until this moment.

When she and Jon run to the attic window they find it open, the curtains fluttering ominously against the dark of night. Sansa is afraid to look, but she knows she has to.

She’s not prepared for what she sees.

Below, illuminated only by a shaft of moonlight, Bran’s body is sprawled on the ground, his legs twisted at impossible angles. He’s not moving.

_See_ ? A voice inside her whispers, a voice that sounds exactly like Joanna Lannister’s. _This is what happens when you disobey me. You’ve sinned, and now you’re getting punished._

_You’re never getting out of here,_ another voice says in her head. Cersei’s.

Sansa begins to cry. Is this truly a punishment from the Seven, for what they’ve done?

“He was just climbing, like he always does,” Arya sobs, her voice very, very small. “We were playing, is all. And then… I don’t know. I took my eyes off him for a second and he fell!”

_But Bran never falls_ , Sansa thinks, remembering how nimbly he’d climb trees back in Winterfell.

And yet he has. The gods have seen to it. He must have fallen fifty feet, maybe more—Sansa would rather not think about it. People survive these falls regularly, she tells herself. Her baby brother is still alive. He has to be.

“What do we do?” Arya asks, looking up at Jon and Sansa with big, teary eyes. Sansa recognizes that look. It’s the one Sansa would give to her parents when she needed reassurance. Arya’s only a little girl, after all, and they’re the closest thing she has to parents now.

Sansa takes a deep breath. She’d like nothing more than to have an adult to reassure her as well, but her parents are dead, and they’re alone now. She’d like nothing more than to have someone tell her _what_ to do. If Bran is found lying there in the morning, they’ll all be in huge trouble—never mind the fact that they simply can’t leave their brother there.

“You go downstairs with Rickon,” she tells Arya in the steadiest voice she can muster. “Jon and I will take care of this.”

Relief is plain on her face before Arya runs off. Jon and Sansa wait until she’s left to look at each other.

“I’m climbing down,” Jon says. “We can’t just leave him there. Help me find a rope. I know there is one somewhere.”

It takes them all night to find it, fearing the entire time that they won’t make it, that Joanna will come in, that Bran is dead. Sansa tries to stifle the fear and concentrate only on finding that damned rope. She upturns boxes, opens drawers and suitcases, turns the attic upside down, until she finally finds a long rope, strong enough to hold a man’s weight. She insists on testing it first, to make sure it won’t fray, and only then does she allow Jon to climb out of the window with it secured around his waist.

He climbs down the roof slowly, and anchors the rope to one of the gargoyles on the ledge.

Climbing down proves easy for him, but Sansa knows climbing back up with Bran on his back will be next to impossible. She holds her breath as Jon turns Bran over gently, then gives her the thumbs up.

_Thank the gods_ , Sansa thinks. _They don’t hate us after all. They were just warning us, is all._ Bran’s alive.

It takes an excruciatingly long amount of time for Jon to climb back up. Sansa is relieved when his hands find hers and she’s able to pull him up. He looks exhausted, his brow covered in sweat, but Sansa doesn’t care and she kisses it anyway. He’s just saved Bran, saved them all.

They lay Bran down on the bed he shares with Jon and Rickon. Sansa lets Jon examine the damage.

“Both his legs are broken, I think,” he announces. “Maybe his back too. It’s hard to say.”

“Will he wake up?” Arya asks immediately.

Jon and Sansa exchange a look. Bran’s face is white and clammy, and his mouth is grimacing in pain. His eyes remain closed, even when Sansa strokes his cheek and calls his name.

“We don’t know,” Jon answers truthfully.

Arya’s eyes glisten with tears. “He has to go to a hospital, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then we should wake the whole house up.”

Sansa shares this sentiment. She wants to scream, to rage against Cersei and Lady Joanna for locking them in here, to bang on the door and demand to be let out. But she knows it will only make matters worse. How are they even going to explain Bran’s fall? They’re not supposed to leave the room… They’ve angered the gods, angered Lady Lannister and Cersei enough… 

“This is a disaster,” Jon whispers to her. “He _needs_ to go to the Hospital.”

Sansa knows he is right, but one look at Arya tells her she needs to de-escalate the situation before they all do something they’ll regret.

“It’s almost dawn,” Sansa says reasonably, hoping she sounds calmer than she feels. “It’s going to be okay. Lady Joanna will be here with our basket in a minute. We will tell her Bran needs medical attention and—”

“And what if she says no?” Jon interrupts her. “What if Cersei’s told her what I did?”

Sansa doesn’t have time to be mad at Jon for letting that information slip, because Arya catches on quickly. “What do you mean? What did you do?” Arya asks suspiciously.

“It doesn’t matter, Arya. And she won’t say no!”

* * *

She says no.

“He betrayed my trust,” Lady Joanna says icily, ignoring their protests. Sansa could have sworn time stands still in this moment. Does she know about Jon’s late night excursion? About their presence at her party? “You all did. You know you’re not allowed outside, but you went on the roof anyway. For that there must be punishment.”

Sansa’s eyes prickle with tears of relief. Lady Joanna doesn’t know about the party. She’s only blaming them for allowing Bran to play on the roof.

Still, _punishment_? Isn’t it enough that Bran may die?

Sansa tries not to show fear, but when Lady Joanna leaves, a chill travels down her spine. She knows whatever is coming next, it’s not going to be good. And what if Lady Joanna does know about the party after all? What if it’s all a trick meant to get them to lower their guard? What kind of punishment will she inflict on them then?

She searches for Jon’s hand, feels relief surge through her when he takes it. Whatever’s coming, at least she’s not facing it alone.

“Sansa, take Rickon and Arya and go to the attic,” Jon says quietly, squeezing her fingers. “And don’t come down.”

Sansa lets go of his hand. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

Jon’s expression is unreadable as he looks at her. Finally he says, his eyes never leaving her face, “Arya, go.”

And for the first time in her life, Arya obeys without question. She lifts Rickon in her arms and carries him to the attic door, where she pauses and gives the two of them a long, lingering look. Sansa has never seen her look so terrified.

Sansa gives her a nod, hoping her own fear doesn’t show. She needs to be strong for her, for all of them.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jon tells Sansa. “There’s still time. You should go to the attic with the kids.”

Sansa kisses his cheek, like the ladies do in the stories. She has no idea what possesses her to do it, only that it feels right. “I’m not leaving you, Jon Snow.”

She’s glad she doesn’t, for when Lady Joanna returns, she’s holding a rod in her hands.

“I told the two of you to mind the little ones, take care of them, make sure they follow the rules,” she says, her fingers white where they clasp the rod with a strong grip. “You’ve disobeyed me.” She makes it sound like they’ve committed a grave, unspeakable sin, and her eyes are so fierce, her voice so steady and sure, Sansa finds herself believing it. The gods do seem to have punished Bran, after all. Her heart hammers in her chest, beating in rhythm to the words guilt, guilt, guilt.

“We will start with you,” Lady Joanna announces, looking at Sansa.

Jon moves before Sansa can react. He stands in front of her as if to protect her. “You can whip me all you like, but I won’t let you hurt her,” he says.

Lady Joanna goes pale.

“ _Let me_ ?” she repeats. “This is _my_ house. You have no authority here, boy.” Her eyes narrow, and Sansa knows they’ve somehow made the situation worse. “So you won’t let me hurt _her_?” And she looks at Sansa as if she’s seeing her for the first time. “Why? What is she to you? What have the two of you done behind my back?”

Jon lifts his chin in a futile attempt at defiance, then takes a step forward. He’s grown taller, almost towering over Lady Joanna’s small frame.

“Nothing!” Jon snaps. “You keep accusing us of—” His ears go red. “I don’t know what. But we haven’t done anything!”

Lady Joanna is not impressed with his bravado. She also takes a step closer to him, and grabs his chin none too gently. With a start, Sansa realizes she’s examining the bruise that is blooming where Cersei hit him.

“What is this?”

“An accident,” Jon lies. He’s always been such a terrible liar, Sansa thinks. He should’ve let her answer instead.

But it’s enough for Lady Lannister, it seems. It’s plain she doesn’t care what happens to them anyway.

She’s never felt so abandoned, so lost and bereft, as she does when Lady Lannister meets Jon’s eyes with cool, unflinching certainty and orders, “Take off your shirt.”

Sansa eyes the rod, tears falling freely down her cheeks now. _No_ , she thinks. No, she wouldn’t. She _can’t_.

“Sansa, go to the attic now, please,” Jon says, his voice shaking—whether from fear or rage, Sansa does not know.

“No,” she whispers. “No…”

Jon’s eyes won’t leave the old hag’s face. “It’s okay. Just go.”

One look at Lady Lannister’s face tells her she’s only delaying the inevitable by staying, and making things worse with her presence. So, like a coward, she flees.

Up in the attic, she finds Arya and Rickon embracing each other. She joins them and wraps them in a maternal hug, and together they sit huddled in a corner, listening to Jon’s grunts each time the rod meets his flesh. Sansa feels every lash in her very soul, and each one is a blow to the safety she’d once felt in this place, to her belief in Cersei, to her unwavering certainty, until she’s nothing but an empty husk.

She could not have said how long it takes for it all to be over. Minutes, hours, years. All she knows is by the end she’s whimpering along with Arya and Rickon, her heart hurting for the boy that is more brother than cousin to her, more than a brother still. Then the awful sounds coming from below stop, and she can breathe again.

“Wait here,” she says to Rickon and Arya once she’s certain the Lady Lannister is gone. Her voice sounds alien to her ears, hoarse, distant. “Don’t go down until I tell you to.”

Rickon tries to cling to her, sobbing, begging her not to leave him, but Arya manages to extricate him from her and hold the boy in her arms as he cries.

Sansa never knew she was capable of hatred, but she knows now that she is. She hates Lady Joanna, hates Cersei, hates Robert, hates everyone who’s responsible for what’s just happened.

She runs down the attic steps, desperate to get to Jon, terrified she’ll find him sprawled on the floor like Bran, hurt and unconscious.

What she finds is almost worse. He’s on the floor, but he’s breathing heavily, his naked back crisscrossed by angry, red welts. Sansa is by his side in an instant.

“Please,” she whispers. “Please tell me you’re okay.” She doesn’t know what she’ll do if he isn’t.

An imperceptible nod. Sansa chokes down a sob, relieved and frightened at the same time. “Can you get up?” she asks him softly.

“Yeah,” Jon says, his voice distant. He sounds as if he’s retreated inward, to some place Sansa can’t reach, and that scares her even more than the wounds on his back.

“Let me help you.”

His weakness gives her the strength she needs to help him up and half drag him to the nearest chair.

“We need to help Bran,” Jon says weakly. “Arya is right. We should wake the whole house up and damn the consequences.”

Sansa is inclined to agree, but the voice in the back of her head keeps reminding her that they’re alone in the world, that they only have Cersei and Robert, and that she doesn’t know what the consequences will be if they ruin their plans. And Joanna Lannister… if this is what she does to people who disobey her, what will she do to them if they start waking up servants and causing a ruckus?

“We can’t,” Sansa says desperately. “We have to wait for Cersei—”

Jon looks at her with dark, dead eyes. “Cersei isn’t going to help us.” He sounds so certain. “It’s all my fault,” he adds in a whisper.

“It’s not your fault!” Sansa insists. “Go to the bathroom, take care of those wounds. I’ll figure something out.” She’s thinking furiously. “We have books on everything up in the attic. Maybe there’s something there that will help us.”

She runs to the attic, where she orders Arya to go and tend to Jon’s wounds while she looks for the ominous medical tomes she knows she’s seen lying around somewhere. Rickon clings to her skirts the whole time, his eyes impossibly big, his lip trembling. Sansa would give anything to have the time to comfort him, but she doesn’t.

She flips through pages and pages of useless information, discarding one book after the next, until there are piles upon piles of books scattered all around her. Just as she’s beginning to lose hope, she finally stumbles upon something useful: instructions on how to heal fractures.

Later, Sansa will have no idea how she ever managed it. The next few hours feel like a dream, as she gathers all the necessary supplies from the few things they have, and very carefully sets about wrapping Bran’s legs in makeshift splints, then gently lifting them up with the use of pillows. Bran groans in pain the whole time, even in his sleep. Still, Sansa is grateful for it: it means he’s still alive.

When it’s done, she sits by his side on the bed, and places a damp towel on her baby brother’s forehead. She has no idea if it will help, but she’s seen it on TV and in the movies; it feels like the thing to do. Now all that’s left to do is wait.

None of them is able to eat the breakfast Lady Joanna brought, nor are they able to speak. Rickon cries silently on Arya’s shoulder. Jon is still shirtless, and he winces in pain every time he moves.

Hours pass before Cersei arrives. The beautiful woman looks more out of place than ever, enveloped in a gorgeous dress, as pure and white as Jon’s back had been before her mother had punished him.

“My mother told me what happened,” she says grimly. Sansa is past caring about anything she might have to say. She can only think of Bran.

“He has to go to a Hospital,” Sansa says, her fingers intertwined with Bran’s. “He’s not well.”

Cersei looks uncomfortable. “Yes, well… You see—”

“No, we don’t see,” Jon says somberly. It’s the first time he’s spoken since he sat in that chair. “Our brother needs medical attention and he needs it now!”

“You know it’s dangerous,” Cersei insists, sounding nervous. “You’ll get separated if anyone discovers him. But I have a doctor we can trust, he’ll mend your brother in no time.”

A man Sansa hadn’t noticed was there steps inside. He seems to have been lurking in the shadows all along. The sight of him raises goosebumps in her arms. He’s carrying a doctor’s bag, but there’s nothing else about him to suggest he’s a doctor.

“This is Qyburn,” Cersei tells them. “He’s my personal physician.”

And, because they have no choice, Sansa lets the strange man approach her brother’s bed, lets him examine Bran, lets him touch him, watches helplessly as he removes the splints she so carefully made in order to set her brother’s bones properly. He works for a long time, but in the end he gives them all a look devoid of pity.

“I am sorry,” he tells the four of them as casually as if he were commenting on last night’s game. “All I can do now is ease his pain. He won’t make it. Best start saying your goodbyes now.”

“No,” Sansa says immediately.

“I’m sorry.”

Her whole body is numb when Qyburn and Cersei leave. _No_ , she keeps thinking. No, no, _no_. Life has taken enough from her. It can’t take her little brother too.

* * *

She refuses to give up, as do the rest of them. They take turns watching Bran, changing the damp cloth Sansa insists on applying to his forehead, keeping him alive with nothing more than milk and honey. Every day they beg Joanna Lannister to take Bran to the hospital, to have mercy on him, to bring them something to soothe his pain, anything. They beg and they cry and they scream, but she never looks at them with anything but contempt.

Finally, they resort to banging on the doors and shouting, crying “Help!” at first, then “Fire!”, pleading someone will hear.

But the house remains as silent as ever, and all they get for their trouble is more whippings. Sansa cries the first time it happens, but by the third she welcomes the pain. It’s nothing compared to what Bran is suffering.

Her days have never been busier, and they’re marked by pain. She attends to Bran as often as she can, and when she’s not taking care of him she’s helping Jon apply ointments to the welts on his back, or tending to hers. It’s hard, grueling work, but she welcomes the distraction.

Otherwise, there’d be nothing to do but wait.

They wait for days, then weeks, until finally a month has passed with no sign of Bran waking up. Cersei hasn’t visited them in ages. Sansa no longer cares.

Now she truly is beginning to lose hope. In Bran making it out of this alive, in them all getting out of here someday, in sunshine and love and music and all the things that make life worth living.

And then Bran wakes up on the first morning of Winter.

He doesn’t remember what happened before his fall (“I never fall,” he says, confused, when Sansa explains to him what happened), and when he tries to move he declares, in a voice that breaks what remains of Sansa’s heart, “I can’t feel my legs.”

* * *

They beg to see Cersei, Robert, anybody. But no one comes. No one cares. Lady Joanna still brings them food and takes out their trash, but otherwise, they’re alone.

Sansa starts losing track of time. Some days it seems she only lost her parents and fled her home yesterday, others she feels as if she might as well have been born here. She no longer remembers the smell of fresh air, the breeze in her face, the snow melting in her fingers.

She takes to peering out of the attic window, imagining she’s a maiden in a tower, and that she’ll soon be rescued from it. She watches the snows fall and the cold winds blow, and dreams, and longs for something she has no words for. It’s more than freedom, more than life—it’s everything.

She’s in her spot again, watching as the snow collects on the windowsill and on the roof, when Jon approaches her from behind and wraps a shawl around her shoulders.

“We are getting out of here,” he whispers in her ear. “I promise.”

“When?” Sansa whispers back, without turning to look at him. His hands are on her shoulders still, and then he’s hugging her from behind. Sansa relaxes against his back, closing her eyes. “How, Jon?”

“We will figure it out. Have faith in me.”

“You know I do.”


	10. From winter to summer then winter again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the Warnings to 'Major Character Death' because of Ned's, Cat's, and Robb's deaths in the beginning.
> 
> Also, their ages are as follows now:
> 
> Sansa- 14  
> Jon- 15  
> Arya- 9  
> Bran- 7  
> Rickon- 4

A year passes, marked by Bran’s slow recovery, which halts their escape plans. He spends his waking hours staring blankly at the roof at first, then reading in bed, or chatting with his siblings when he’s feeling particularly well. It’s clear to Sansa he’s no longer the boy he once was: his smiles don’t come as easily, nor his laughter, nor his joy. He has to take all his meals in bed, has to be carried to the bathtub and taken to the bathroom, has to have nearly everything done for him. Jon installs bars on the ceiling and on the walls to make it easier for him to move, but Bran rarely uses them. He rarely leaves his bed, after all.

Sansa’s heart aches for him, while her hatred for the Lannisters increases tenfold. She’s now fourteen, and she finds herself detaching from reality, living in stories, sustained by her dreams. She grows particularly fond of the tale of Jenny of Oldstones, spending hours rereading the play, the ballad that inspired it, and the many novels and stories that followed them. By then she has her own corner in the attic, a place where she can read on an old divan, or dance before the largest mirror they found in the attic with the aid of a barre Jon’s installed for her. She also keeps a music box there, although Arya makes fun of her for it and Sansa worries Jon will think it’s childish of her.

They’ve all carved their own little spaces inside the huge attic. The only thing in Baby Rickon’s are mountains of toys and large empty boxes he likes to hide in, but his siblings have been more creative.

Arya’s chosen a spot with enough open space to accommodate a dummy and a target, and there she spends all her time, shooting her toy arrows at the target and punching the dummy with her brand new boxing gloves.

Meanwhile, Bran is on the opposite end of the attic, where he can move with the help of the barres Jon’s installed on the walls. There, he keeps the mice they find in the traps they’ve set all over the attic, and plays with them. It’s the only thing that seems to give him some semblance of joy.

Jon’s space is the smallest and the tidiest: all it has is his record player and a sofa, where he lies for hours on end, listening to music. It’s closest to Sansa’s corner, so that she can play ballet records and dance to them. Sometimes he even plays them of his own accord, without her having to ask him, and he simply sits there and watches her dance.

Occasionally, Sansa catches him staring at her with the oddest look on his face, as if he’s looking at some stranger, rather than his fourteen-year-old cousin. It makes Sansa feel very strange herself.

Their lives keep running their course inside that bedroom and up in that attic, but only in the sense that time passes. The rest passes them by: friends, classes, schoolwork,  _ life _ . Sansa can feel it slipping through her fingers like sand. She tries to capture the feeling as she dances, spinning endlessly, helplessly, then tiptoeing as delicately as if she were made of porcelain.

For some reason, she doesn’t dare to try to replicate the dances she saw the night of the party. That night, which was supposed to be a happy memory, has been ruined by everything that came afterwards — what they saw Cersei do with her brother, Jon slipping away to explore, Cersei slapping him, Bran’s fall, the whippings.

Cersei remains the only person who at least pretends to care about them, even if she disappears for weeks on end and is always drunk when she does come by. She still brings them toys and clothes, and even a TV set that they manage to set up in the attic with the help of endless extension cords. But she’s no longer Aunt Cersei. She’s simply Cersei, their gaoler.

Sansa tries to pretend too. If they’re getting out of this place, she’ll need to play her part.

* * *

The TV quickly takes over their lives. Time is no longer measured by the arrival of the basket of goods in the morning, nor by the skeletal rays of light that filter through the drapes, but by the TV’s schedule. There’s talk shows and news in the morning, cartoons after that, then sitcoms and variety shows, and movies at night. It gives them a sense of stability, of routine, but more importantly, it provides them with a window to the outside world. The people inside are their only company and solace, new faces to look at and voices to listen to, a novelty in their otherwise repetitive existence.

Of particular interest to Sansa are the romances that play out on the screen. She watches, mesmerized, as the tiny people with their tinny voices fall in and out of love, repeatedly, sometimes with the same person. She doesn’t cover her eyes when they kiss, the way she used to do when she was a girl, but stares intently instead. She tries to imagine what it would be like to be kissed, then remembers Joanna Lannister’s words. Perhaps she truly is wicked.

Only, doesn’t that make the people on the screen wicked too? And her parents? She remembers with a pang how sweet they were with each other, how they’d always kiss each other hello in the mornings. Her parents weren’t wicked, she knows, but sometimes it’s as if Joanna Lannister’s words have burrowed into her soul, and she can’t find a way to get them out.

But what about Cersei and her brother? What she’d seen them do was wrong, after all.

You weren’t supposed to kiss your brother.

She’d confide in Jon, if she dared. The problem is, she knows Jon watches those scenes even more avidly than she does. Worse, she knows he looks at some strange books he’s found in the attic when he thinks nobody’s watching. Once Sansa let her curiosity get the best of her and she’d sneaked a peek at them. What she found shocked her: depictions of people engaging in savage, carnal acts, their positions strange and animalistic.

No, she can’t rely on Jon, as much as it pains her. Not with this.

* * *

Their talks, once punctuated by childish fights and trivial subjects, then transformed into something more mature, has now turned almost exclusively to the subject of escape, of the Lannisters, of the manor and its surroundings.

“I thought Jaime was disinherited,” Jon says, for the upteemth time. “What was he doing that day in the mansion?” He does this a lot now. Speculate, plot, plan, think out loud. He’s trying to keep the promise he made to her, Sansa knows, but she doubts turning the same theories over and over in his head is going to help them escape.

So Sansa tries to concentrate on her pliés. She doesn’t want to remember that man, or what he’d been doing with Cersei… or at least, she doesn’t want to discuss it with Jon. In truth, she thinks about it very often, usually at night, when she’s all alone with her thoughts and her wants.

But clearly Jon doesn’t feel the same way. He goes on, oblivious. “And what about Robert? All this time we thought something had happened to him, and it turns out he’s been here all along, getting fat on his in-law’s feasts while we — ”

“Jon, let it go,” Sansa says, feeling exhausted even though she’s only started warming up and hasn’t begun dancing yet. “It’s no use dwelling on these things.”

She feels his eyes on her, as insistent as lovers’ hands, but ignores them. She can’t say she doesn’t like it when he looks at her. The truth is, she looks at herself a lot too, now. Her body is changing, her waist narrowing, her breasts growing fuller; she looks more like Cersei and her mother with each passing day, and more beautiful than the both of them.

Jon is changing too, his voice becoming more deep and guttural, his shoulders broadening along with his back; he’s even grown taller than her now. Sansa looks at him too, but only out of curiosity, so she can imagine what boys her age are like.

“We need a plan now that Bran’s better,” Jon tells her. He sounds hurt. “That’s why I  _ dwell  _ on things.”

“I know, Jon, I know. I’m sorry.” She stops dancing and goes to him, takes a seat next to him on the sofa. His arms wrap around her instantly. They do this a lot now, too. Sansa isn’t sure it’s normal. She worries what Joanna Lannister would do to them if she ever caught them. “Let’s plan, then.”

Jon kisses her hair in gratitude. For a moment he simply holds her there, his grip tight and strong. Sansa sighs involuntarily.

“Let’s,” he says, his voice so close to her ear she shivers.

Sansa swallows hard and doesn’t move. “How will we get out?” Her voice sounds weak, and she’s suddenly afraid Jon will hear her heart beating wildly in her ribcage.

“Relax,” Jon tells her softly. He must think she’s tense because of what they’re discussing—and she is, she must be. She tries to relax against him, but his body is too warm and solid, and she feels like she’s burning. “We’ll climb down using the rope,” he’s saying. “Then we’ll go to the station, catch a ride somewhere. You’ve always wanted to visit the Reach.”

“But we need money,” Sansa points out. “For—for the train.”

“And for everything else,” Jon says, so close to her ear. “We’ll need a place to stay, food, clothes…”

Sansa shivers again.

Yes. They have to get away as soon as possible.

* * *

They decide to test out the rope first. It’s a risk, but they’ll have to explore the grounds sooner or later, if they mean to leave this way. So they wait until it’s dark and the house has fallen asleep to climb out of the attic window.

Sansa is terrified the same fate that befell Bran awaits them too, and it must show on her face, because Jon looks at her tenderly before he tells her, “We are not going to fall. Don’t worry. I’m right here with you.”

And so he is. Reassured, Sansa is able to climb down, although it’s not an effortless task, even with her strong ballerina legs. She’s grown weak inside that room.

She experiences unspeakable relief when Jon’s hands close around her waist and her feet touch the ground. The gardens are illuminated only by the moonlight, but she can see his face plainly, can see the same relief and joy that must be reflected on her face too.

“We are outside,” he whispers, his smile trembling as if he’s afraid it will all disappear if he speaks the words aloud.

Sansa smiles back. She can hardly believe it either. “We are.”

For the first time in a year, the air smells fresh and bright, like earth and grass and pine trees. It’s perfect. A tear runs down her cheek, unbidden. Jon brushes it away with his thumb, eyes soft and full of something Sansa does not comprehend.

“Stay close to me,” he says at last. He offers her a hand.

Sansa would never have dreamed of doing otherwise. She takes his hand, and together they begin their slow and careful exploration of the Casterly Rock grounds. The first thing they find out is that their room is on the east wing, a rather abandoned-looking part of the manor. There are no lights in any of the windows, and the ivy has taken up most of the walls, some of which have cracks in them. The west wing, on the other hand, is as beautiful and well-kept as Sansa remembers from when they first arrived. How naive she’d been then.

There are also stables in the North—could they run away on horseback?—and a pool in the South. There are lawns and gardens and a maze, and beyond all that, a lake next to a forest.

“Where’s the train station?” Sansa asks, perturbed.

Jon angles her head gently so that she’s facing the right direction. Suddenly she sees tiny yellow lights blinking in the distance, to the South, past the forest. Her heart plummets to her stomach. It’s so far.

“I know,” Jon says, as if he’s read her thoughts. “It’s not ideal. But we’ll think of something.”

Sansa nods. She’s glad she has him with her. She has no idea what she’d do without him.

She wishes he’d wrap his arms around her again.

* * *

Slowly, winter arrives again, and with it another enemy: the cold. Being Northerners, they withstand it better than most, but they’re still children, and they’re not immune to illness. Baby Rickon is the first to come down with the flu, but is quickly followed by Bran and Arya. When they ask Lady Lannister for medicine she laughs in their faces.

“I bring you food, napkins, toilet paper, soap, everything you need, I take away your trash… I’m already your maid, and now you expect me to be your nurse? I think not.”

“Please,” Sansa begs, and she hates herself for it. “They need to go to the hospital, but we understand that’s not possible. All we’re asking for is a little medicine.”

The Lannister matriarch might as well be made of stone, for all Sansa’s pleas reach her. “Bear with it,” she tells Sansa, “like we did in my day.”

“What about Qyburn?” Jon asks. “He treated Bran.”

“Prayers is what you all need,” Lady Joanna insists, as if she hasn’t heard him.

“Where’s Cersei?” Jon asks angrily when the old woman is gone. Frustrated, he kicks their garbage bin so hard he sends it spinning across the room, littering the carpet with all their discarded napkins, crumbs, and assorted trash. “She should be here! It’s been three weeks!”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sansa says, kneeling on the floor to pick up the trash. “And don’t take out your temper on our things. We have little enough as it is.”

It’s true. Food seems to be getting scarcer as the days go by, and the children have started getting thinner. What’s worse, they’ve stopped growing.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says meekly, kneeling down with her to help her pick up the trash. “We will escape,” he whispers, “I promise.”

Sansa meets his eyes. “I know. I believe in you.”

And she does. Gods help her, she does.

* * *

Since Cersei has disappeared and Lady Lannister won’t help them, it’s up to Sansa and Jon to nurse the children as best they can. The first thing they do is turn to the medical books Sansa had used when Bran had fallen. Then, in order to break their fevers, they apply cold compresses to their foreheads, remove all the extra clothing and blankets, and keep them hydrated. It’s hard work, but they seem to be making progress where Arya and Bran are concerned.

Rickon, however…

Rickon isn’t getting better. If anything, he’s getting worse. He has chills, even though his skin is hot to the touch. He drifts in and out of sleep, but gets no rest. And still the Lannister crone won’t give them any medicine.

By the second week, he’s developed a cough and has started to complain that his ears hurt, and Sansa is truly scared to death.

“This can’t go on,” she tells Jon one night, as they watch the children sleep in their beds. Rickon’s breathing is shallow even in his sleep. “We have to do something.”

There’s a feverish glint in his eyes when he looks at her. “I know.”

The next day, when Lady Lannister arrives with their basket, Jon falls to his knees in front of her, clutching her skirts like a child. It’s as much a shock to Sansa as it is to the old hag, who is too surprised to push him away. Meanwhile, Sansa can only watch, helpless and horrified, as her brother-cousin looks at Joanna Lannister as if she’s his savior, and begins a speech that freezes the blood in her veins.

“You were right about me all along, Lady Lannister,” he tells her reverently, his eyes glistening with tears. “I am wicked. I am vile. I am filled with… sin,” he whispers the last word, breathing it out with a heavy sigh, as if it’s weighed on him for a long time. And Sansa comes to the startling realization that it has. Jon is so bad at lying, at least some of what he’s saying has to be laced with truth. “When you’re not here, I succumb to wanton needs. I… ”

Sansa is afraid of what Lady Lannister will do to him—surely it will be the rod—but when she sees the look on her face she is surprised at what she finds there. The eagerness, the satisfaction. The woman is drinking every word that comes out of Jon’s mouth and savoring it.  _ She has waited for this moment ever since we came here. _

“Yes?” she asks Jon, shaking him slightly. “What have you done, boy?”

Jon clutches her even more tightly. “I have sinned. I have looked at,” he lowers his voice, “naked women. In pictures.”

“You will give those pictures to me,” Joanna Lannister says right away. “What else?”

“I have had wicked thoughts. I have touched my body.”

Sansa flushes, but Lady Lannister does not flinch.

“Help me,” Jon begs of the woman. Sansa can hardly believe what she’s hearing. But it gets worse.

“What about your cousin?” Lady Lannister asks, glancing at Sansa. “Have you touched  _ her _ ?”

For the first time since his charade began, Jon falters. Sansa’s pulse quickens, thinking of all the times he’s touched her under a whole new light.

“I—er—no,” he says, blushing furiously.

Lady Lannister’s thin eyebrows raise almost to her scalp. “So you have?”

“No!” Jon says quickly. Too quickly.

Sansa schools her features into a neutral expression. “We haven’t done anything, my lady,” she says coolly.

Lady Joanna regards her with suspicion. Sansa is certain she doesn’t believe them for one second.

“Pray,” she tells them at last. “Pray seven times a day, for the seven gods.”

Jon’s relief is palpable. He finally lets go of Lady Lannister’s skirts. “Yes, Your Ladyship.”

Sansa doesn’t dare to push her luck by asking for Qyburn or medicine for Rickon, so she keeps her lips closed as Lady Lannister leaves the room. She waits until her footsteps have receded to speak.

“What was that, Jon?”

But Jon doesn’t respond. Instead, he begins to laugh. He doesn’t even get up from where he’s kneeling on the floor.

“Jon?”

“I did it,” he keeps saying. “I did it.”

“Did what?” Sansa asks, concerned.

Until he shows her what was hidden in his hand all along. A bar of soap, white as snow, with a distinct indentation—shaped like a key.


	11. Just four

Cersei arrives the next day, reeking of wine and perfume and sporting a brand new black dress. Sansa is rationing her and Jon’s food for the week when she comes in. The food that arrives in the basket is not enough for the four of them, so the two of them are conceding a big part of their shares to the children.

“Where’s your brother?” Cersei asks Sansa, watching her work with boredom plain across her features.

“The attic,” Sansa replies, a little irritated. Where else would he be? “He’s my cousin, not my brother.” The distinction feels very important now.

Her answer satisfies Cersei, who throws herself on her usual seat without a care, without even sparing a glance for the children, who are still ill.  _ Does she not see them? Does she not see how pale they are, how drawn and thin, how weak? Is she truly so heartless? _

She must be, because the next thing that comes out of her mouth is, “Your Uncle Robert is dead.” She doesn’t even pretend to be sorry, which shocks Sansa to her very core. He was her husband.

Sansa falters in the middle of cutting a sandwich into quarters. She doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” she manages.

“I’ve been away,” Cersei continues, as if she hasn’t spoken. “He was a pig, but he was my husband. I’m expected to mourn him.  _ Mourn him _ ! Ha!”

_ She’s drunk again _ , Sansa realizes. She’s more receptive to requests when she’s drunk sometimes.

“The kids need a doctor,” she says tentatively. “Rickon especially. He won’t stop coughing, and he can’t breathe properly.”

Cersei regards her as if she’s seeing her for the first time. She still hasn’t looked at the children. “So I’ve heard. I’ll send Qyburn over.” She waves a dismissive hand.

Despite her anger, Sansa feels relief wash over her. At least they’ll get some medical attention.

“Thank you,” she forces herself to say. There are many other things she’d like to ask for —more  food, medicine, clothes that fit,  _ to be let out _ — but she remains silent. It’s always the best course with the Lannisters. Still, she can’t help but ask, “When will Qyburn be here? Rickon is very ill — ”

“I already said I’m sending him over,” Cersei snaps. She scoffs. “My  _ husband  _ just died. Did your parents never teach you any manners?”

“Sorry, Aunt Cersei.”  _ You don’t even care that he’s dead.  _ “It won’t happen again.”

Cersei eyes her coolly, then produces a cigarette from her purse. Sansa can’t believe her eyes when the woman lights it and puts it in her mouth. She knows full well they’re not allowed to open the windows, and that the children are sick. As she smokes, the stuffy bedroom fills with the smell of ash.

“It was an accident,” Cersei says, taking a drag from her cigarette. She blows the smoke in Sansa’s direction, and Sansa coughs. “He was drunker than usual. My poor cousin Lancel was pouring his drinks, he feels so guilty. Can’t imagine why, it was his choice to drink as much as he did. But alas, that’s teenagers for you. Always so chivalrous. You know a thing or two about that, I’ll wager.”

Sansa freezes on the spot.  _ Does she know what Jon’s promised me? Does she know we’re planning to escape?  _ She tries to keep her expression neutral, to give nothing away. The possibility had never even occurred to her.

“I’ve seen the way your brother looks at you,” Cersei continues, taking another drag of her cigarette, green eyes fixated on Sansa.

The relief Sansa feels at knowing Cersei suspects them not of planning their escape but of something entirely different is short-lived. Sansa can control her expressions, but not her heartbeat or the blood that rushes to her face. Nor the unexpected thrill she feels at Cersei’s words. _ I’ve seen the way your brother looks at you. _

But no. She can’t think like that. And she has to focus on what matters. What if Cersei shares these thoughts with her mother?

“Cat got your tongue?” Cersei asks with a mocking smile.

“I’m just confused, Aunt Cersei. I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa lies. “How did Uncle Robert die?” she asks innocently.

Cersei’s expression turns sour. “Like I said, it was an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“A hunting accident.”

Sansa nods, satisfied that she’s gotten under Cersei’s skin. It’s stupid of her, she knows, but she couldn’t help herself.

She waits until Cersei leaves to run to the attic and give Jon the good news. She finds him sitting at his spot, hunched over a small table, carving a real key out of hard wood. He’s been at it since yesterday.

“You should rest,” Sansa tells him. She sits beside him, puts a hand to his back, hoping her touch is as much a balm to him as his is to her. Then, remembering Lady Lannister’s words from the day before, she pulls away as if he’s burned her.

Jon doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ll rest later,” he says quietly.

“All right. Um, Cersei was just here. She’s smoking now,” she complains. “You have no idea how badly it smells down there. But at least she agreed to send Qyburn over.”  _ If I didn’t ruin it by asking about her dead husband’s death. _

Jon stops working and looks up then. “That’s good news. When will he come?”

“She didn’t say. Also… Robert is dead. Hunting accident, apparently.”

Jon’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“She didn’t show me a picture of his corpse, but apparently so.”

“Don’t you realize what this means? We’re no longer their wards. The only reason we are here is because Robert was our legal guardian. Now that he’s dead, they have to let us go!”

He’s so naive sometimes. “Oh, Jon. I don’t think that has ever mattered to them.”

* * *

To Sansa’s surprise, Qyburn and Cersei drop by the next day. He tends to Arya and Bran first, announces they’ll recover quickly enough, then moves on to Rickon. And that’s when Sansa is given the bad news.

“He has pneumonia,” Qyburn says in his irritatingly mild-mannered way, like he’s talking about the weather. “He won’t recover here.” He addresses Cersei now. “He’ll need to go to the Hospital.”

Sansa’s eyes prickle with tears. All of a sudden she has a terrible sense of foreboding. “Then I’ll go with him,” she says, trembling.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Cersei says. “You see—”

“No!” Sansa interrupts her. “You can’t take him anywhere alone!”

“Sansa, my sweet,” Cersei says gently, “you’ve heard the doctor. Your brother has to go in order to get better.”

Jon gathers her in his arms, whispering that it’s for the best, that Rickon will get better, that he’ll be back before they know it, that if they’d taken Bran to the Hospital he’d be better too, and so on. But she’s hysterical. She lashes out at him, scratching him, hitting him, crying that he’s not a Stark, that Rickon isn’t his brother so how could he possibly understand, shouting for him to let her go, let her go, let her go.

It’s no use. Through it all, Jon hangs on to her.

Sansa can only watch as Qyburn scoops up Rickon’s unconscious body and takes him away.

* * *

Sansa is sorry for her behavior afterwards, but has no idea how to patch things over with Jon. They mostly avoid each other: she takes care of Bran and Arya, who are now well enough to leave the bed, and he stays in the attic carving the key.

Sansa misses him fiercely. Misses his voice, his face, his hands, their long talks, the way he’d kiss her hair. She hurt him, she knows, not because she hit him, but because she said he’s not a Stark. No injury could have caused a deeper wound than that.

She has no time to dwell on it, however, for a couple of days later, Cersei comes back. Alone. Still dressed in black, pale as stone and unsmiling, she looks like one of the Victorian-era ladies Sansa has seen in books.

“Gather around, children, please,” she says gravely.

They have to go summon Jon from the attic, and after that they sit with Cersei to hear what Sansa already knows. She starts to cry before Cersei opens her mouth to say it.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news. Rickon’s pneumonia was very severe. The doctors did all they could, but they couldn’t save him. He passed away last night.”

Arya leaps into Jon’s arms and begins to sob. Bran’s tears fall silently down his cheeks. Sansa cries harder than before.  _ Oh, Rickon _ . With his easy laughter, his tantrums, his tangled auburn hair. Gone.

“The funeral—” Jon begins, his voice hoarse.

“He’s already been buried,” Cersei says with a note of finality.

And with that, without even giving them her condolences, she turns on her heel and leaves them to their grief, to mourn the youngest of them, the one who was never supposed to go first, never supposed to go at all.

Sansa wants to lash out at Jon again, to scream at him and scratch his face, but she knows it’s not his fault. It’s the Lannisters’ fault. If they hadn’t denied Rickon aid when he needed it, he’d still be alive. She looks to Arya, who’d normally say this out loud, only to find her broken beyond repair. Her sister is drawn and sallow, her cheeks hollow, her huge eyes moist with tears. She’s no longer Arya Underfoot, but a different creature entirely, and it dawns on Sansa that she’s the same size she was when they first came here.

Sansa turns to Bran, and sees the same. A willowy young boy, malnourished, sad beyond words, and broken. Neither he nor Arya will ever be the same after they leave this place. If _ we leave _ , a tiny voice inside her whispers, a voice that sounds like Cersei Lannister.

Sansa wipes her eyes as best she can. “We have to get out of here,” she tells Jon. “Or we’ll be next.”

* * *

“I’m sorry.”

It’s the first words they’ve spoken since the day Rickon died.

It’s a sunny morning, too bright for their moods, and the light that filters through the attic window is warm. Sansa wants nothing to do with it.

Jon sets his carved key on the table and turns to look at her. His eyes are dark and red-rimmed. He’s thrown himself into his work ever since Rickon died. Sansa’s barely seen him these past few weeks.

“I know.” He doesn’t even have to ask what she’s sorry for, he knows her that well. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not,” Sansa insists, approaching him warily. She hasn’t been near him since they fought. “I didn’t mean what I said.” She takes another step. “But I said it anyway, and for that I am sorry.”

Jon watches her approach without speaking. Sansa takes that as permission, and she finally takes a seat next to him. She feels both nervous and at ease, like she’s come home after a long trip.

“Will you forgive me?”

He smiles softly at that. “I already have.”

Sansa resists the urge to leap into his arms. She wants so badly to be comforted.

Jon must sense it, because he asks gently, “Are you all right?”

“I miss Rickon,” she admits. It’s the first time she’s said it out loud. Tears gather at her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “He was just four. How could the gods let this happen?”

Jon puts an arm around her shoulders, and Sansa instantly leans against him, out of instinct. She breathes him in, his scent so soothing and familiar. She could stay here like this forever.

“The gods didn’t let this happen,” he tells her, “the Lannisters did.”

“I hate them. All of them. How can they be so cruel? We’re just children.”

“Like you said, I don’t think that matters to them.” He kisses her hair and holds her closer. “But don’t worry. The key is finished. We’re getting out.”

Sansa should feel ecstatic, and a part of her does, but with Rickon gone, their victory rings hollow. She feels like she’s aged a thousand years in the span of one. First she lost her parents and oldest brother, then she was locked up in here, then she became responsible for her siblings’ welfare, then Bran fell and lost the use of his legs, then they were whipped, then the children fell ill, and now Rickon is dead… It’s too much. It’s so much.

Jon is the only one who understands. If something happened to him… Sansa shudders.

She grabs Jon’s hands. His are calloused and warm from so much hard work, hers are soft and cold.

“Promise me you won’t die,” she says to him. “Please.”

He studies her face seriously for a moment, tucks away her hair behind her ear, traces his fingers over her cheekbone. Sansa resists the urge to close her eyes—no one has touched her with such tenderness and love since her parents died. Only Jon.

“I’ll never leave you,” he whispers against her temple. He deposits a kiss there, and Sansa does close her eyes then. It feels more solemn than a promise. It feels like a vow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't kill me, guys. i'm as devastated as you are. but i promise things pick up next chapter!


	12. In the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this is soon (and short) but i literally couldn't wait to share it with you guys. hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!
> 
> You can find me at:  
> twitter: @[witcherology](https://twitter.com/witcherology)  
> tumblr: @[witcherology](https://witcherology.tumblr.com/)

Sansa puts her grief in a box and keeps it there, contained, so she can move on to their plans of escape undisturbed. With the key completed, she and Jon begin to formulate a plan.

The first thing they decide is that they’ll need a map of the grounds, so they scale down the roof again under the cover of night. The sky is particularly beautiful, a splotch of black ink with stars glittering overhead, the moon a silver disk shining in the dark. Sansa admires it in awe, until she remembers that Rickon will never see anything like it ever again. He’ll never see anything at all.

The mere memory of him brings tears to her eyes, and she wipes them on her sleeve. She has to be strong. She still has two siblings left. And a cousin.

“I can do this alone if you’re not feeling well,” Jon tells her gently.

She sniffs and meets his eyes, resolute. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

With the aid of a compass they found in one of the old trunks in the attic, Sansa sketches out the basic outlines of the buildings and the grounds on a piece of paper according to Jon’s instructions of what’s North and South, while he points a lantern at the paper to help her see. It takes them hours, and by the end they’re exhausted.

They’ve made it as far as the lake, now, and the water looks so very tempting, Sansa can’t resist it when Jon looks at her and says, “Should we…?”

She knows they shouldn’t—they’re already risking enough as it is, being out here in the first place, and for so long—but her lips curl in an involuntary smile. She hasn’t been outside in a month, and before that, she hadn’t been outside in a year. As for the last time she swam in a lake… that was a lifetime ago, back when she was a different Sansa Stark.

One of her shoes comes off, then the other. She’s pleased with the fascination on Jon’s face. He watches closely as she peels off layer after layer, until she’s only in her underwear. Jon stares and stares, seemingly unable to move or speak.

“Your turn,” Sansa says. Her voice comes out husky and shy. Her pulse is so quick, she can hear it in her ears.

Ever the dutiful boy, Jon hastens to comply. He removes his shoes first too, and leaves them next to Sansa’s. Then he takes off his shirt, and Sansa takes a deep breath. It’s the first time she’s seen his bare chest in a long time. He’s more muscular than she remembers, narrower of waist, broader of shoulder. He’s beautiful.

They stand there for a moment, taking each other in, knowing they’re doing something wrong, and not caring.

Jon takes a step. Sansa closes her eyes. Strong hands grip her shoulders, and… 

Water rushes to meet her. He’s pushed her into the lake.

“You jerk!” she yelps, laughing. The water is cold and refreshing on her skin. “Get in!”

He’s smiling at her, a smile she hasn’t seen on him in ages, all teeth. “Are you sure?” he asks playfully.

“Yes!”

He jumps in, and immediately he’s on her, and they’re struggling together in the water, splashing each other, every fear and sorrow forgotten. Jon grabs her and pulls her to him, and Sansa gasps when their bodies meet, skin to skin. Their underwear is soaked, and it’s almost like they’re both naked. She flushes, but doesn’t pull back, doesn’t struggle.

“What?” Jon asks, confused at her stillness. He turns her chin up so he can look into her eyes. “You okay?”

With a start, Sansa realizes she has seen this scene before. The playful fight under the stars, the boy and the girl diving into the lake together almost naked, the boy getting close to the girl and tilting her chin just so… Her heart beats wildly. Is he going to kiss her?

But all Jon does is look at her. His eyes are filled with something deeper and more unknowable than can be contained in the words she’s read in books and what can be expressed by actors on the TV.

Without knowing why, Sansa closes the distance between them and presses her lips against his.

He goes still for a moment, but then he seems to give something up, something that had been building up inside him for a long time, gnawing at his insides until he was raw. His arms tighten around Sansa’s waist, and at long last, he gives in. He kisses her back fiercely, possessively, hungrily, devouring her with his lips and his mouth and his tongue.

Sansa has never been kissed before, but she knows nothing will ever beat this kiss. It’s soft and sweet and intimate and passionate and loving, all at once, it’s all she’s ever wanted and more. It doesn’t matter if they’re clumsy at first, they soon find their rhythm and what they lack in experience they make up for in enthusiasm. She doesn’t want it to end. Her chest feels impossibly tight, full of something she can’t describe.

When it’s over, she rests her forehead against Jon’s, her breath intermingling with his. For a moment she’s able to forget everything: the attic, her grief, her wrath, even who they are. For a moment she’s able to simply feel. Feel Jon’s wet skin on her fingertips, his strong biceps around her, his chest pressed flush against hers, his wet hair, his familiar scent…

And then she feels something else. Something hard, pressing against her thigh.

Sansa jumps and moves away as fast as the water will let her. All of a sudden the wickedness of what they’ve done hits her like lightning, as damning as the rage of an angry god.

They’ve just succumbed to the very sin Joanna Lannister accused them of.

Jon looks both embarrassed and hurt. “Sansa…”

Sansa turns, making for the shore. She can’t look at him. “We should leave. We’ve already been away too long.”

She doesn’t look back to see if Jon is following.

* * *

She can’t face Jon after what happened.

Much as she tries not to, she thinks about their kiss all the time. When she’s doing the dishes in the bathroom sink, when she’s brushing Arya’s hair, when she’s helping Bran dress, when she’s dancing. She thinks about all the delicious sensations the kiss had woken in her, that wanting that would not be sated. She thinks and thinks, and feels vile for it. He’s her cousin, but closer than a brother. They grew up together, even. It’s a sin.

So why does she feel this way?

Her days are agony. Filled with both longing and despair, she can only watch Jon from afar, knowing he’s watching her in turn. She doesn’t dare come close to him, least of all talk to him. They only address each other for practical matters, like rationing their food.

The kids seem to sense something is off, because Arya asks her if she’s cross with Jon one day. Sansa laughs weakly and assures her that’s not the case.

Then, one night, while she’s dancing in the attic, she catches Jon’s reflection in the mirror. He was watching her, but he lowers his gaze respectfully when he realizes she’s noticed.

“Yes?” she asks.

“I think it’s time we used the key,” he tells her in a tone he hasn’t used with her in a long time. It’s his Grim Cousin Jon voice.

It breaks Sansa’s heart that they’re talking to each other like this, like they’re back in Winterfell, practically strangers.

She has no idea what to do to breach the chasm that’s opened between them. She feels helpless and alone, and it terrifies her. A world without Jon by her side is one she doesn’t want to live in.

_ I’ll never leave you _ , he’d promised her. But had he meant it?

It suddenly occurs to Sansa that she never made a similar promise to him. Perhaps that’s how she can begin to fix this.

She tries to find the right words, but all that comes out is, “I agree, but we can’t escape right away. We’ll need money.”

“We can steal from the house,” Jon says right away. He’s already planned this. It hurts Sansa that he didn’t confide in her first. “There’s silver, gold, jewels, money… We’ll have to be careful so as not to attract attention, though. Steal only a little at a time. Pocket money, change, stuff like that.”

Sansa nods. That sounds reasonable enough.

“We should start tonight, while everyone is asleep,” he says. “We’ll sneak out using the key. I’ll let you know when.”

He turns on his heel, ready to leave, but Sansa stops him with a word. She hasn’t patched things up with him yet. They can’t leave things like this.

“Wait,” she says, and he stops and turns. “About what happened at the lake…”

Jon’s face hardens. Sansa is taken aback by the intensity of his gaze. It’s as if he’s daring her to say something. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“We got carried away,” Sansa says weakly. “I’m sorry I…” she can’t bring herself to say it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

There’s a tense pause. Then, “Is that all you have to say?”

“No!” Scared he’s going to leave, she runs to him and holds onto his sleeve. “You made me a promise, that you wouldn’t leave me. I want to promise you the same thing.” She extends her pinky to him. “I won’t leave you. No matter what.”

His face softens at that. His pinky wraps around hers and they shake on it.

“You’re something else, you know that?” he says fondly.

* * *

That night, they sneak out of their room around one in the morning, barefoot and clad only in their pajamas. It’s the first time Sansa’s been in this part of the manor since the night of the party, and the memory causes her to shudder. As they make their way downstairs, silent as mice, feeling their way around in the dark, she finds herself remembering what they’d seen Cersei and her brother doing that night.

“All these rooms are abandoned,” Jon whispers, taking her hand, perhaps out of habit. Sansa flushes, but doesn’t pull away. “We can begin by taking stuff from here.”

They creep down the hallway, hand in hand, until they reach a heavy oaken door with a golden doorknob.

“In here,” Jon says, and he opens the door slowly.

Sansa’s heart pounds and pounds. What if there’s someone inside? What if they’re heard or seen? What if Lady Lannister comes upstairs? Or Cersei?

But nothing of the sort happens. Instead the door opens to reveal what appears to be a more luxurious version of their own bedroom, with canopy beds and Persian rugs. It’s all old and quite out of fashion, though.

Jon closes the door behind them and turns on the light.

Startled, Sansa asks, “What are you doing?”

“No one’s gonna see. This wing is completely deserted, remember?”

Sansa frowns, but Jon is already opening drawers and armoires and stuffing things in the small backpack they brought with them. Sighing, Sansa joins him.

She finds a string of yellow pearls inside a beautifully carved box and she can’t resist putting them around her neck. The last time she did this she was a little girl, but the pearls had been white, and had belonged to her mother. After a moment’s hesitation, she shoves the box into a bag. It’s probably more valuable than the old pearls.

There are pairs upon pairs of shoes at least two decades old in the armoire, all of them moldy, so she leaves them there. There are also fur coats, the likes of which she hasn’t seen since she left Winterfell. They smell of naphthalene, but she tries one on anyway. The moment she puts it on, she experiences the same rush of snugness and security she’d felt whenever she’d borrow one of her father’s coats. There’s a knot in her throat and pain in her heart.

“I think we’re done with this room,” Jon declares, turning around. His eyes widen when he sees her. “What are you doing?”

Sansa shrugs, and half of her coat comes off, revealing a bare white shoulder. “I don’t know,” she sniffles. “I just miss them.”

Jon’s entire body seems to melt. He sets the rucksack down and opens his arms, wordlessly.

Sansa runs to him, wrapping her arms around him as he does the same. His hands pat her back gently as she sobs, and she rubs her cheek against his shoulder, relieved. She’s needed this for so long. She needs him so much.

“I miss them too,” Jon tells her, and his voice breaks. Sansa takes his face with both her hands and looks at him. His eyes are big and there are tears in them.

She feels terrible. Of course he’s in mourning too, has been all along. And all she’s cared about is herself, her pain.

“Oh, Jon,” she says softly. She kisses one of his tear-stained cheeks, then the other. He tastes like salt and soap and aftershave. “Oh, Jon, I’m so sorry.” She keeps raining kisses down on him, on his cheeks, on his temple, on his nose, on his chin, and then, without realizing it, she’s kissing his mouth.

She pulls away immediately, mortified. Jon is gaping at her.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I shouldn’t have done that.”  _ Again _ . “I was trying to comfort you, you were crying and instead I—I’m sorry.”

She runs out of the room, forgetting the pair of pearls and the fur coat she’s wearing, forgetting the bag of goods she’s left behind, just runs until she’s back in their room.

It’s the first time she’s ever wanted to be there.


	13. These strange longings

They don’t talk about what happened that night. Sansa is already in bed when Jon arrives. She pretends to be asleep, but even so, she feels a tension hang in the air between them, thick and heavy.

Sleep does not come easily to her. When it finally does, she dreams she’s being chased by demons from the Seven Hells, who all tear chunks from her flesh as she runs, until she’s nothing but a skeleton with bits of skin clinging to her body. Behind her, an old woman cries, “Sinner! Sinner! Sinner!” as she runs, and in front of her, Cersei Lannister’s knowing green eyes mock her.

She wakes up with a start the next day, sweaty and unsettled. Terror seizes her when Lady Lannister opens the door the next second. She fears so many things at once: that the woman knows what she’d dreamt of and why, that her excursion with Jon has not gone unnoticed, that she’s here to punish them cruelly. But all the old lady does is deposit their basket on the usual spot and leave without a word. Relieved, Sansa sags against the pillows.

She takes a bath to calm down and wash the nightmare off her skin and cleanse it from her mind. She succeeds, for the most part. A vague, unpleasant sensation remains at the back of her mind, a remnant of the forgotten dream. And then, of course, are the memories of last night, and of the night at the lake… Sansa sinks deeper into the tub, wishing she could chase those away just as easily. But she cannot.

Something inside her goes warm and cold all at once as she closes her eyes and remembers the kisses, the feeling of Jon’s lips against hers, of his arms around her, as if they belonged there and always had. She’s afraid of what that means. She shouldn’t think this way.

When she exits the bathroom, it’s to run straight into Jon, who seems as surprised as she is to find her there, even though they’ve inhabited the same space for over a year.

“Excuse me,” she says, embarrassed.

He moves to make way for her.

Sansa goes about the rest of her day deliberately avoiding Jon, yet as aware of his presence as if he were a missing limb. She misses his eyes on her, his touch, his tenderness, his company.

But she must bear this phantom pain, for both their sakes’.

So she does, for long, torturous months, where their only interactions consist of sneaking out at night to steal what little they can from the house.

* * *

One night, many months after their last kiss, they’re walking down a dark hallway when all of a sudden Sansa’s blood runs cold: she hears voices and footsteps approaching. Thinking fast, she grabs Jon by the arm and shoves him inside the nearest room, which proves to be a mistake: it’s a tiny broom closet, and they have to stand nose to nose to fit in.

Sansa feels Jon’s chest rise and fall against her own, and her heart skips. He is warm and solid against her, and she has no choice but to stay as still as possible, their foreheads almost touching, as the footsteps come closer.

“ _ Why _ is he back?” Cersei hisses furiously. “He was disinherited.”

“ _ Privately _ ,” a second voice emphasizes. It’s an arrogant masculine drawl, and although she hasn’t heard it in more than a year, Sansa recognizes it at once—it’s Cersei’s twin and lover, Jaime Lannister. “You know how Father values his legacy. He can’t have people knowing about his family’s indiscretions. Why, he even disinherited the two of us for a time, didn’t he? But never mind Tyrion—”

Cersei and Jaime are much closer now, for Sansa hears Cersei’s next exclamation very clearly.

“I do mind! The little dwarf has a knack for sticking his ugly little nose where it doesn’t belong. Same as Stannis Baratheon. I gave the man one job, and he couldn’t do it without prying and asking too many questions. This Baelish, now,  _ he _ will be more suitable to the task.”

They’re right outside their door now.

“You should have known Baratheon was a stickler for the law. He’s probably searching for those missing children as we speak.”

“I’ve already taken care of that.”

“Have you?” her brother asks skeptically. “Or have you made it worse?”

“I don’t want to hear that from  _ you _ , of all people. Not after what you pulled.”

Their voices fade away, and Sansa is left trembling. She and Jon look at each other, and Sansa knows they’re thinking the same thing.  _ They were talking about us. _

Their eyes meet, and heat rushes to Sansa’s face. All of a sudden she remembers how close they are standing. She and Jon break eye contact, both equally embarrassed, until it’s finally safe to come back and return to their bedroom.

* * *

They sneak back to their bedroom a short while later. The children are still asleep when they arrive, so they head up to the attic as silently as they can, and shut the door behind them.

Once there, Sansa cannot contain her panic any longer. “They were talking about us!”

“I know.”

“What was that they said about Stannis Baratheon? And they mentioned a man called Baelish…” A sick feeling twists in her gut. “Could it be Aunt Lysa’s widower?”

“I think that has something to do with all that lawyering they claimed they were doing,” Jon says. His brows are drawn in concentration. “Back when we first got here.”

“She said she fixed it,” Sansa says with a shudder. “The matter with Stannis Baratheon. Fixed it how?” The mere thought is enough to cause her heart to go still with fear. “And Jaime Lannister said… He said he might be looking for us now.” The thought fills her with hope. In all her time in here, it had never occurred to her that someone out there might care what had happened to them. They had no living family, after all. But perhaps there are still good and just people in the world.

Jon seizes her by the shoulders, as gently as if she were a fragile little bird. “We can’t trust strangers, Sansa,” he says. “I know Stannis Baratheon. He’s fair, but he’s implacable. He won’t rest until he’s brought the Lannisters to justice, it’s true, but he’ll also separate us and send us to orphanages, you can be sure of that.”

“Then we have to escape as soon as possible.”

Jon sighs and runs his hands through his hair, frustrated. “We don’t have enough money yet, and we’ve already taken all we can from this wing.”

“We’ll have to start stealing from the West Wing, then,” Sansa says, crossing her arms, daring him to contradict her.

Jon looks at her for a long time. “We’ll have to be very careful, though. Perhaps it would be best if I go alone—”

“Absolutely not!” Sansa says with a ferocity that surprises even herself. The thought of Jon down there all alone, at the mercy of those monsters is too much for her. What would she do if something ever happened to him? “No. I’m coming with you.”

Jon collapses on his sofa, rubs the sleep from his eyes. Sansa takes him in: he’s grown a few more inches, and his pajamas are so ill-fitting she can see his ankles and his wrists and the hair there. She finds herself wishing she could touch him there.

She knows she can’t, but there’s nothing written in the Seven-Pointed Star against sitting close to your cousin, so that’s what she does next. Jon looks at her in surprise.

She’s tired of being away from him, though. There are no rules against hugging your cousin or laying your forehead on his shoulder, either, so she does that too.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers into the crook of his neck, half-hoping he won’t hear.

His arms tighten around her. He’s heard her.

“I’ve missed you too,” he whispers in her ear, sending those delicious shivers up and down her spine. She sighs contentedly, silently willing him to do it again. He doesn’t, but his hands begin to move up and down her spine, almost all the way to her buttocks. Sansa gasps, surprised at how good it feels.

There’s no rule against this, either, she’s pretty certain. So she does the same for him, and is rewarded when he sighs in return. She wonders what it would be like to feel his skin, like she did that day by the lake, but that is surely forbidden. This is not.

They stay like that for a long time, touching each other over their clothes, comforting each other, communicating without words.

Sansa has never longed for something so much, without knowing exactly what it is or how to get it.

Although a part of her suspects she knows exactly what it is, and that she’s too afraid to reach out and take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> v short chapter, i'm sorry about that, but again i couldn't wait to share. it was also necessary to set up the next one.
> 
> also i dunno if anyone is into star wars but i'm working on a jonsa star wars au!
> 
> You can find me at:  
> twitter: @[witcherology](https://twitter.com/witcherology)  
> tumblr: @[witcherology](https://witcherology.tumblr.com/)


	14. A Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> their ages now:  
> Sansa: 15  
> Jon: 16  
> Arya: 10  
> Bran: 8

They use the second year of their imprisonment to steal all they can from the house.

As they move on to the West Wing, where the real valuables lie, they create a map of the place, so that they know which rooms are always inhabited and which areas they need to avoid. They also eventually learn what times of night and what days are safe to visit those areas, and slowly begin to steal stuff from there too. They take jewels from Cersei’s infinite collection, a miniature bronze dragon from her brother Tyrion, pocket money from Jaime. They never dare steal anything from Lord or Lady Lannister, nor take anything too large to carry or too valuable to be missed, so they can continue collecting their escape money slowly but undisturbed.

Meanwhile, Arya remains as small as she was when she first came to the attic, except she’s now scrawnier, her bones protruding. Bran is even worse. At least Arya can move, play; at least she still screams at them when she’s mad and cries when she’s sad. Bran does none of these things. He has terrible nightmares, and he keeps muttering the same words over and over in his sleep. Sansa can never make out what they are exactly, though.

The food they’re being given is now so scarce they’re all on rations, even the children. They’ve gotten used to the hunger, it’s as much a companion to them now as the perpetual dimness of the room is, and they have even learned small ways to quell it: drinking as much water as they can, distracting themselves, trying not to expend too much energy.

Cersei’s gifts eventually stop coming as well, not that it matters. Her visits also grow less frequent, and Sansa is relieved for that. She doesn’t need her suspicions, her knowing green eyes, her constant accusations.

Sansa and Jon never speak of what happened that day at that abandoned bedroom, nor at the lake. But they continue touching each other as often as they can. They only do it when they’re alone, up in the attic, with no one to bear witness. Sansa pretends not to notice when his hands graze the curve of her breast, and she pretends she doesn’t lean into it either. She especially enjoys when they lie on top of each other, pretending they’re just talking, and that they aren’t casually exploring all the ways in which they differ from one another.

She comes out of every one of these encounters feeling like she’s tasted something forbidden, telling herself it will be the last time, already knowing it’s not. 

Then comes the night that changes everything.

They’re in the West Wing, and, having grown used to it now, they go their separate ways. Sansa enters Jaime’s bedroom, knowing he won’t be here—he’s always with Cersei—only to discover, to her surprise, that he’s lying in bed, sound asleep. His bed lamp is still on and he’s still wearing his clothes—he must have been exhausted. Overcome by curiosity, she steps closer. The man is absolutely beautiful, even more beautiful than the actors in the pictures. He is fair where Jon is dark, elegant where Jon is harsh, all golden hair and high cheekbones. He is a horrible man where Jon is everything that is good.

She wonders what it would be like to kiss him. Would it feel the same as kissing Jon?

Stepping even closer, she leans in and deposits the softest of pecks on his lips. Then she runs away.

Later, once she’s back in her bedroom, she realizes she hadn’t felt anything.

* * *

It takes a while for Jon to return. Sansa is in the attic by the time he does, counting their money. They have a system in place: every time they come back, they count it all, and then they put it all back in a place that’s safe from mice and Lannisters alike. She’s so focused on the task at hand she barely hears his footsteps coming up the stairs. He crosses the attic in long strides before coming to a halt in front of her. His face is contorted with rage.

“What were you thinking?!” he asks her angrily.

Sansa drops the bills on the table, confused. She has never seen him so furious before. “What are you talking about?”

“You  _ kissed  _ him!”

Sansa pales. How does he know?

“I overheard him telling his brother how a young redhead kissed him in his sleep. His brother said—” His fists clench. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is you endangered the whole plan. What if he’d caught you? What if we’d been found out? Did you ever stop to think of that?”

Sansa’s stomach plummets. She hadn’t.

“I’m sorry,” she says sincerely. She has never meant the words more in her life. She can see it through his eyes—they could have lost everything, the money, their escape, their safety, simply because she’d been a fool. “I really am.” But she needs him to know she isn’t a selfish idiot. “I—I wanted to know what it’s like,” she confesses.

If she’d been expecting that to placate Jon, she’d been deeply mistaken. If anything, it only makes him angrier.

“What  _ what _ ’s like?”

“Kissing someone… someone who isn’t…” She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. They both know what she means.

Jon nods at her, ice cold. “And? How was it?”

“Disgusting,” she admits. There are other things she could admit as well, were she brave enough. But she is not.

She and Jon stare at each other; a long, pregnant silence stretching between them.

“Don’t worry, soon you’ll be able to kiss all the boys you want,” Jon says at last, with a hint of bitterness. “When we get out of here—”

“I—I don’t want to do that!” Sansa snaps. “You can’t treat me like that!”

Jon blinks in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Like… like…”  _ Like you’re mine, and you’re jealous of me.  _ “You’re jealous,” she says, realization dawning on her.

Jon’s eyes narrow, but his face is red. “Why would I be?”

“Because you—” she can’t bring herself to say it. “You don’t want me kissing anyone that isn’t you,” she finishes weakly, unable to believe herself. She’s done it. She put the unspeakable into words.

Jon’s expression is unreadable. After a moment, he breaks eye contact and says stiffly, “We don’t kiss.”

“Because you don’t want to!” Sansa cries, tears pricking at her eyes. No. She won’t let him take this back, not now that it’s out there.

At that, Jon raises his head, his eyes meeting hers. There’s fire in his gaze when he asks, “ _ I _ don’t want to?”

“Yes! You’ve rejected me twice, or have you forgotten?”

Jon’s face is red with anger. “Rejected  _ you _ ? You’re the one who said it was a mistake!”

_ Oh _ . Sansa deflates. All of a sudden images of the past come back to her: Jon’s face after she’d jumped out of their embrace that night on the lake, how hurt and embarrassed he’d looked, how she’d just walked away from him; how she’d broken off their kiss at the bedroom when he was at his most vulnerable and run off, leaving him alone.

“I—I didn’t know what to do back then,” she says sincerely. He deserves the truth. “That day on the water, I—” she blushes, and she’s certain she must look as red as her hair, but she goes on, “I felt your—your—”

“Yes, I know,” Jon says hurriedly, just as embarrassed as she is.

“I’d never—I was scared, and confused, and—I don’t know. I never meant to hurt you.”

Jon nods, inviting her to go on.

“And when we were at that bedroom, I wanted to comfort you, but then I realized I was being selfish. You needed a hug, not—Well.”

“So you don’t think it’s a mistake?”

He’s so close Sansa can’t think clearly. She looks at his face, his dark grey eyes, his long dark hair, the shape of his jaw, his Adam’s apple. He’s a man now, no longer the boy she knew.

She swallows, hard.

“I think we both know it’s complicated,” she says, meeting his eyes. “But I wouldn’t call it a mistake.”

He smiles then, and Sansa’s heart melts along with what´s left of her defenses.

Jon brushes her lower lip with his thumb. “Good,” he says in a whisper that’s barely audible.

Unable to fight it any longer, she kisses his thumb and wraps her arms around his neck.

It doesn’t matter anymore. Everyone who would have cared is dead, and the children are too young to understand. And it’s not like the two of them are blood siblings. They’re cousins, that isn’t so bad. She tells herself the same thing she’s told herself for the past few months: until not so long ago, it was normal for cousins to marry; and in some lands it is still legal.

_ No _ , a voice that sounds like Lady Lannister reminds her,  _ it’s still immoral. A sin. _

Jon strokes her cheek, the gesture so tender it brings tears to her eyes. He seems to be at a loss for words. Or, more accurately, he seems to be trying to convey something to her with his eyes alone. Sansa thinks she knows what it is, and is relieved he won’t say it yet.

Then his hands are on her cheeks again, gentle but sure, and he kisses her. She sighs contentedly, leaning against him, her hand gripping his head.

There’s more passion in this kiss than in their previous two kisses combined, more raw emotion. They’re older now, more familiar with their own bodies and with each others’. He pulls her closer, pressing her against him, but it’s not close enough. Soon they’re tumbling down, until they settle on the mattress that witnessed so many of their talks.

She hums in the back of her throat when his hands begin to explore her. They’ve done this before, of course, but it’s the first time they’re acknowledging it for what it is, the first time their caresses are purposeful instead of sly. When Jon finally slides his hand under her shirt to touch the skin underneath, she gasps.

“Is this okay?” he asks her.

“Yes,” she breathes, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Don’t stop.”

For once, the voice in the back of her mind that sounds like Lady Lannister is silent. She’s too drunk on Jon to hear her.

“Don’t stop,” she repeats when Jon finally touches her where she’s always wanted him to, and her toes curl with pleasure. “Don’t stop, Jon...”

She grabs her wrist to keep his hand there, guiding his movements until the pressure that had been building inside her is released and stars explode behind her eyelids. Jon kisses her deeply, continuing to touch her body as she recovers, and Sansa becomes aware of his need too.

She’s gotten used to feeling him go hard against her over the past year, although she’s always pretended not to notice. Now, however, she wants to notice, wants to do something about it.

She’s still reeling with pleasure, but it’s not enough, she realizes. She wants all of him,  _ needs  _ all of him to feel whole.

“Jon,” she whispers, looking deep into his eyes, hoping he’ll understand.

He does.

He takes a great deal of care in guiding himself inside her, doing it in slow, deliberate strokes. Sansa arches her back when they’re finally joined fully, digging her nails into his back, nibbling his neck and experiencing the indescribable sensation that, despite being trapped where she is, she is finally free.

* * *

Morning comes and finds them sleeping in each other’s arms, their limbs entangled, covered by the mink coat they stole from that abandoned bedroom all those months ago. Sansa wrinkles her nose at the smell but grins anyway, knowing Jon must have wrapped them with it in the night. She presses her nose to Jon’s skin, breathing him in. He smells of sweat and musk and something else, and for the first time she can begin to admit that perhaps… 

She hears keys turning downstairs. A door opening. As if in slow motion, she listens to the footsteps as they make their way into the room, her heart beating wildly in her ribcage the whole time, knowing exactly to whom they belong to.

Lady Lannister is downstairs with their basket, and they’re not there.

Shame comes crushing down on her, heavy as a stone. What have they done? She looks at Jon, sleeping placidly by her side, and sees not the man but the boy who first came to their door all those years ago, the boy she grew up with in Winterfell, the boy that’s as good as a brother. Her chest tightens. What would her parents think? What would Robb, Arya, Bran and Rickon think? Oh, why have they done this?

Voices drift from downstairs and she comes back to reality. It sounds like Arya and Lady Lannister are arguing.

“Jon,” she whispers harshly. She can’t bring herself to touch him. She’s already moved away from him. “Jon, wake up.”

Jon mumbles something incoherent, then opens his eyes sleepishly. He smiles when he sees her. “Hi.”

Sansa cringes at that smile, wishing it didn’t bring her such joy. Such pain. “Lady Lannister is here.”

That wakes him right up.

Together they get dressed, as quickly and as silently as they can, while they hear the sounds of a conversation drifting from downstairs. Lady Lannister interrogating their siblings as to their whereabouts, most like.

“What do we do?” Jon asks Sansa. “What do we say?”

“We got up early, and went up to the attic to read and talk so we wouldn’t disturb the kids,” Sansa says instantly, the lies coming easily to her tongue. She fixes her hair. “Whatever you do, don’t look anxious. That old crone can smell fear.”

Downstairs, they find Bran sitting in his bed, and Arya facing Joanna Lannister in her pajamas. She looks so small and frail, a tiny little thing with wild brown hair that’s in need of cutting and a body that’s in need of food.

“I’ve already told you, I don’t know!” she says to Lady Lannister.

Sansa picks up the pace. “Is something wrong?” she asks sweetly, as if she doesn’t find the sight of her sister so near that old hag disturbing. “Good morning, Lady Lannister.”

The older Lannister woman turns her attention to Sansa, blessedly leaving Arya alone. Arya gives Sansa a look that says, “Where were you?” Bran doesn’t look at her at all.

“Why were the two of you not here when I arrived?” Lady Lannister asks at once.

“We were reading and talking in the attic, Your Ladyship.”

Joanna Lannister looks as if she’s telling her a tale she’s heard a thousand times, a tale she knows better than Sansa. It’s almost as if she knows what Sansa is hiding from her;  _ everything  _ she’s hiding from her: the key, the thieving, what she and Jon have done, all of it.

“What were you reading?”

“The Seven-Pointed Star,” Jon supplies. It’s very smart of him, too: it’s the one book Lady Lannister won’t ask them to quote from after last year’s fiasco.

“So early?”

“We forgot to read it yesterday,” Sansa says, with the air of someone admitting a grave trespass. “So we thought we’d get an early start today.”

Joanna Lannister arches an eyebrow. “I see. That’s very serious indeed. It  _ won’t  _ happen again.”

“No, Your Ladyship,” they agree.

As soon as she’s gone, Arya is turning on her heel and asking why in the seven hells they weren’t here. Sansa flushes, her shame so fresh it feels as if Arya is probing at an open wound. She doesn’t know how Jon reacts, doesn’t want to know.

“Why aren’t you answering? I know you didn’t sleep here last night,” Arya says, suspicious.

“We were talking and we fell asleep,” Jon answers when Sansa doesn’t reply.

Sansa has never felt more trapped. If only there was somewhere she could go to be alone. But there isn’t. She has to put up with questions and stares when all she wants to do is crawl up in bed and cry and never get up.

She leaves for the attic without a word and prays Jon doesn’t follow.

He does.

“Are you all right?”

He’s already sensing something is wrong. She can’t look at him. She’s dancing, the music so loud it’s almost deafening. She can hardly hear him.

“Sansa, look at me.”

No answer.

“Sansa, please.”

“I need to be alone.”

“Do you regret it?”

She says nothing. She won’t lie to him.

He leaves.

* * *

That night, he sneaks out of their bedroom alone, without a word to her. She’s grateful.

She’s sleeping when he gets back. He shakes her awake, not as gently as he usually does, and she nearly jumps out of her skin. She was having another nightmare.

His face is serious in the dark. “Come with me. It’s important.”

They head up to the attic together, and Jon sets his rucksack at the usual table. He doesn’t empty it like he always does, but turns to her instead. Gone is the tenderness of last night, the sweetness she’d grown used to; there is only ice in his eyes.

“You might want to sit down for this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i went back and forth on whether sansa would regret what happened or not, then ultimately decided she would. sorry about that. i'm also sorry about the cliffhanger. but i promise to update asap!


	15. Secrets

“Tywin has been dead for a year,” Jon begins without preamble. “And he knew about us all along.”

Sansa plops down on the sofa, boneless. Her head is reeling.  _ This can’t be real _ , she keeps thinking.  _ This can’t be happening, it must be a mistake _ ...

Surely the world isn’t this cruel.

“She said she’d let us out as soon as he died,” she mumbles, in a voice that sounds alien to her own ears, “because he couldn’t know we were here. Cersei said—”

“Listen,” Jon interrupts her. He never interrupts her. “Listen,” he says, softly this time.

And so he begins his tale.

It was still early when he left their room last night. Surrounded by shadows, he made his way downstairs carefully, watching every step. As usual, he ignored the areas they’d already explored and made his way to the Western wing.  There he was surprised to find the lights were still on in one of the rooms, and he retreated back into the shadows. Voices drifted from the jarred door in the room, and he stopped to listen.

The door to Tywin’s study was wide open, the room dark but tempting. Unable to resist exploring, he stepped inside and shut the door. He was not prepared for what he saw once he turned on the lights.

White sheets covered the furniture, and boxes took up most of the remaining space. Jon’s heart hammered wildly in his chest. Someone had packed up all of Tywin’s things, it seemed.

Everything except for the huge mahogany desk, which had been recently dusted and polished. Jon approached it warily, already sensing he’d find nothing good there.

Papers and folders were stacked neatly on top of the desk, and as Jon began to sort through them, an uneasy feeling settled over him. That was when he stumbled upon the will. The folder was heavy, and his eyes were drawn to it right away. The will was long, and by the end Jon could hardly make sense of the words.

He found another document inside the folder: a death certificate. For one Lord Lannister.

Jon had to put his hands on the desk to keep steady. He went through the will again, checked the signatures, and was not surprised to discover that Cersei was the sole heir to her father’s fortune, and had claimed her inheritance last year.

She was already rich, and with her father dead, there was nothing stopping her from freeing them.

But that wasn’t the worst news. Amidst all the papers, Jon found one clearly marked ‘Stark children’. Terrified, he opened it. The folder contained all their information and documentation: birth certificates, hospital and school records, the death certificates of all their parents, including Jon’s.

Jon nearly dropped the folder in surprise. The truth about his parentage had been kept a secret from everyone to protect Lyanna’s and Rhaegar’s reputations, lest the world know their already scandalous affair had resulted in an illegitimate child. Jon had never seen the point behind all the secrecy: his father had died before he was born, and his mother shortly afterwards. Instead, he’d grown up with his Uncle Benjen, until he too had died, and he’d gone to live with Uncle Ned and Aunt Catelyn. It seemed everyone in Jon’s life wound up dead…

Shaking his head to clear it from those somber thoughts, he continued his search and found something even worse. A letter. It fell from the folder as Jon turned over the pages, and landed ominously on top of the desk. Jon began to read, heart hammering.

> _ Mr. Baelish, _

> _ I write to you on behalf of the Stark children. They are alive and well, and under my care. However, my daughter tells me they are proving troublesome. _
> 
> _ I expect your full cooperation in this regard, as well as your complete and total discretion. _
> 
> _ Sincerely, _
> 
> _ Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock _

Head spinning, Jon put everything back where he'd found it and ran back to their bedroom.

“What does this all mean?” Sansa asks him now.

“Tywin was planning something involving us. I don’t know what, but I don’t intend to stay to find out. We need to get out of here, fast.”

“But we don’t have all the money—”

“We have enough,” Jon interrupts her. “It will have to do. Go wake up the children.”

Sansa frowns at his tone. She understands he’s upset, but the old Jon would never have spoken to her like that. The thought fills her with sadness.

“No, we don’t,” she says calmly. “We need a few more days at least. Where will we go with what little we have? We need to plan ahead.”

Jon’s face is pale. “We don’t  _ have  _ a few more days. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“I understand that you’re upset,” she says meaningfully. They both know what she’s talking about. “And not thinking straight.”

“Sansa…”

“Just a few more days, Jon. And then we’ll leave, I promise.”

He turns away, so Sansa can’t see his face when he reluctantly agrees. “Fine. Have it your way.”

It’s the last thing Sansa wants to do, but she forces herself to get the words out. “We should talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Goodnight.”

“Fine. Goodnight.”

Sansa leaves, her heart heavy. They used to be able to talk about anything.

* * *

The next morning is as difficult as the night before. Jon refuses to talk to her, and he won’t get out of bed.

“Did you two fight again?” Arya asks her accusingly after her attempt to rouse Jon is unsuccessful.

“Leave me alone, Arya.”

Arya opens her mouth, no doubt to press the matter further, but is interrupted by a knock on their door.

They all look at each other. Even Jon. No one’s ever knocked on their door before entering.

There’s a long pause, until Sansa realizes the person on the other side is waiting to be let in.

“Come in,” she says.

“Excuse me.”

The man that enters their room is short but well-dressed, and he smiles at them as if he’s genuinely pleased to see them. Sansa can’t remember the last time someone other than her family smiled at her like that.

“Good morning,” he says, although it’s well past noon now. “My name is Petyr Baelish. I’m your Uncle.”

Sansa shivers. So this is Mr. Baelish, the man Tywin’s letter was addressed to. Jon was right, they should have left last night. Her suspicions had been right, this was Aunt Lysa’s widower after all.

Meanwhile, Jon is getting up, eyes wide awake now. He gives Sansa a reproachful look.

“Don’t you remember me? You went to my wedding,” Mr. Baelish says warmly.

“What do you want?” Arya asks, and for once Sansa doesn’t care that she’s being rude.

“May I sit?” Petyr Baelish asks, pointing at Cersei’s usual chair. Sansa nods, and he takes a seat. “I know this must be very strange for you. Here, would you like some candy?”

He produces a small bag of sweets from his coat, and Sansa’s mouth waters. She hasn’t had candy in ages, nor a proper meal. She’s hungry and sorely tempted, but she forces herself to put her arm around Arya so as to keep her there. They’re not taking anything he offers them.

“No, thank you,” she says politely.

“Perhaps you’d like some later.” The man sets the bag on their table, where its bright colors stand out against the old wood. “As I was saying, I’m your Uncle. Your Aunt Lysa and I were married before she passed. And I am an old friend of your mother’s.”

“I remember you,” Sansa allowed. There’s no point in lying. She had been only slightly younger than Arya at that wedding, but old enough to remember. “The little ones probably don’t, though. They were very small back then.”

“I see. That’s understandable.” He smiles again, and Arya grabs Sansa’s arm. Her small hand is cold. She’s afraid, Sansa realizes.

“You should leave,” Jon says.

“Don’t you want to listen to what I have to say first?”

“No,” Jon says. “Leave.”

The man’s expression doesn’t change, if anything he smiles even more. “But I’m here to get you out.”

“Out?” Bran asks. Sansa hasn’t heard him sound so hopeful in ages.

“Out,” Petyr Baelish confirms. “I’ll take you home, back to Winterfell.”

Sansa’s eyes fill with tears. If she could go home again… If she could only stand outside once more, feel  _ real  _ snowflakes on her face, smell the fresh scent of weirwood and cold again… 

“What do we have to do?” she finds herself asking. Hope blooms in her chest like a flower. She can feel Jon’s eyes on her, sense how angry he is. But she doesn’t care. Finally, after all this time, they have a way to go home again. Not to some seedy place for runaways, but  _ home _ .

“All you need to do is trust me,” Mr. Baelish says. Like it’s easy, after all they’ve been through, to put their trust in the hands of yet another adult.

“We don’t trust you,” Jon tells him.

Mr. Baelish’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “How do you intend to get out of here, then? By climbing down? With a weak little girl and a crippled boy in your arms?”

Sansa swallows, all thoughts of home forgotten. That familiar fear, that anxiety that never leaves her, has wormed its way into her soul again. How had he known about their plan?

Their faces must give them away, because Mr. Baelish chuckles and says, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. But you must admit it is a poor plan. Even if it worked, where would you go after you escape? Certainly not Winterfell. And where do you imagine runaways like you end up? Not to mention the medical help you all must need after being locked up for so long. And your brother, will you carry him on your backs for the rest of your life?”

There’s sense in his words, Sansa knows. It’s as if he’s voicing all her fears.

“Instead, I offer you a different choice. Winterfell, with all its comforts. A place where you can be safe and heal.” He pauses. “Won’t you at least consider it?”

“Leave,” Jon repeats.

“As you like,” the man says, standing up. “Perhaps next time you will be more welcoming.” Something about the way he says this fills Sansa with a sense of foreboding. It’s as if he knows something they don’t. “Goodbye. Don’t forget to try the candy.”

After he’s gone, all that’s left is silence and their dull, gray bedroom.

* * *

Sansa can’t allow Jon to keep wallowing on his own, not now. She needs her partner, her friend, her brother, her  _ Jon _ .

So she leaves Arya and Bran to their own devices, allowing them to indulge in as much candy as they want, and climbs up the stairs that lead to the attic.

Jon is lying comfortably on his sofa while soft ballet music plays in the background. Sansa creeps closer to him, and pauses when she realizes he’s asleep.

With a start, she realizes she hasn’t looked at his sleeping face since that morning after they were together. Heart beating painfully in her chest, she allows herself to drink in the sight: the loose curls falling carelessly on his forehead, how his long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the way his chest rises and falls softly every time he breathes. She could look at him all day. She could look at him forever.

Jon’s eyes snap open. Sansa flushes with embarrassment at having been caught staring.

“I thought you were sleeping,” she says weakly.

Jon says nothing, only looks back at her, his expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she says, sinking to her knees before him, laying her head on the sofa so she can look into his eyes more comfortably. She doesn’t know what else to say, so she takes his hand and kisses it. “Please forgive me. I need you. I need you. I need you so much.”

She can’t see his face through her tears, but she can hear how gentle his voice is when he murmurs endearments to her as he strokes her hair and wipes the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs.

“I need you too,” he whispers to her.

She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face there, breathing in his scent. She hasn’t smelled him or felt him in so long. A second later he returns the embrace, and Sansa sighs, content. This is where she belongs. Right here, in this boy’s arms.

How could this be a sin, when it feels so good and so right?

After a while, Sansa says, “Cersei was lying all along. And I believed her. I’m so stupid!”

Jon hushes her, rocks her back and forth like a child. “You’re not stupid,” he reassures her. “This is all the Lannisters’ fault. Don’t forget that.”

She sniffs. It’s so nice, being held like this, like she’s precious and cherished. She rubs her cheek against his shoulder, itching to get even closer.

“How could he have known we were here, and done nothing?”

“He’s even more cruel than his wife and daughter,” Jon says, running his hands down her back soothingly. He pauses. “Do you think he hated my parents so much that he saw this as a fitting punishment for their son? Maybe I should never have come live with you—”

Sansa pulls back and takes his face in her hands. “Never say that again. Do you hear me?”

Jon nods, surprised at her tone. Sansa hugs him again.

“I couldn’t live without you,” she whispers, half-hoping he doesn’t hear, half-hoping that he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this took forever to write! I hope y'all enjoy it. love you all so much and as always thank you for your love and support. :D
> 
> You can find me at:  
> twitter: @[witcherology](https://twitter.com/witcherology)  
> tumblr: @[witcherology](https://witcherology.tumblr.com/)


	16. The things we do for love

Petyr Baelish returns before they have time to formulate a plan or divine what his intentions are. He brings more candy with him, and something else: a photograph, faded and old but carefully preserved, of Sansa’s mother. He says it’s a gift, a token of goodwill. Sansa can hardly believe it. She takes the photograph like it’s a holy thing, and in a way it is: she hasn’t seen her mother’s face in over two years.

“You look like her, you know,” Petyr Baelish tells her, looking at her strangely.

Sansa can’t help but feel flattered, if not relieved. Her mother was beautiful, and if there’s one thing Sansa doesn’t think she is these days, it’s good looking. Her cheeks are hollow, her bones protruding, her skin sallow. Not only that, but any connection to her mother is a welcome one—she misses her so.

“Thank you, Mr. Baelish,” she says, and means it.

“Please, call me Petyr,” he says to her alone. He seizes her hands gently and gives them a squeeze. “I will get you out of here, Sansa. I promise you that.”

Jon coughs pointedly, and the man releases her hands. But not before sending Jon an unreadable look.

“There’s no reason to distrust me,” he tells the four of them. “I am your Uncle. The only family you have left in the world, the only one who cares about you.”

“If you care so much, why haven’t you called the police and let them know we’re here?” Jon snaps.

“The police?” Petyr scoffs. “They’re all in the Lannisters’ pocket. We’re talking about the richest family in the country, and the most powerful. No, I’m afraid there’s only one way out of here.”

“And what’s that?” Arya asks.

Petyr regards her with a glint of mischief in his eyes, as if he’s letting her in on a private joke. As if he’s letting them all in. “Through the front door, of course.”

“We don’t trust you,” Jon says. “We’re not going anywhere with you. You can tell that to Cersei when you report back to her.”

If he’s insulted at his tone, Petyr shows no sign of it. “I’m not in Cersei’s pocket. Well, she thinks I am, but that’s beside the point.”

“Why is she letting you see us?” Sansa asks him.

“Ah, that’s the big question, isn’t it?” Petyr’s eyes twinkle. “You’re a smart girl. You can figure it out.”

Sansa thinks about it. “She knows we don’t trust her anymore.” As soon as she says it, she realizes it’s the truth. “She wants us to lower our guard so that we… what? What does she want us to do?”

“Sign some papers,” Petyr says with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if it’s a trivial matter. “She wants Winterfell, and she wants to get rid of you. She’ll make you sign an NDA too, so airtight you’ll never be able to tell another soul what happened to you here.”

He gives them a moment to take that in. Sansa is so overwhelmed she turns to Jon for support. Instantly, he has an arm around her shoulders.

“Why are you helping us?” Jon asks Petyr.

“I’m your family. You children belong with family, as does Winterfell. Don’t you want it back?”

Sansa wants that more than anything. But although he speaks sense, everything about Petyr makes every hair on her body stand on end. Something in his grey-green eyes makes her skin crawl; it’s as if he’s undressing her with her eyes. She doesn’t trust him.

* * *

After that come more gifts: chocolate bars, toys, newspapers and magazines, books, clothes that fit, and candy. All the candy they can eat, and more.

Eventually they all grow used to his presence, even Arya. He brings them food, after all, and these days they can’t afford to refuse food. Not when the meals the Lannisters give them have grown so meagre.

Jon, on the other hand, makes it plain he doesn’t like Baelish. He never takes a seat when the man is visiting; but instead stands menacingly, arms crossed, scowling until Baelish finally leaves. Sansa doesn’t bother telling him he’s being rude. She knows he doesn’t trust him, and never will. Neither does she, for that matter.

But as he keeps reminding them, he’s all they have. Their only hope of getting out of Casterly Rock. And the more he talks, the more Sansa believes it. He gives voice to every single one of her fears: that Bran will slow down their escape, that Arya is too small to outrun anyone that might chase after them, that they have no money and no place to go, that they’ll be fugitives with no connections while the Lannisters have all the wealth of the world at their disposal. And how weak they all are!

For indeed, they are all growing weaker every day. Sansa can see it every time she looks in the mirror, can notice it in the way her hair has started to fall off in clumps. Arya barely talks, and Bran never does. It’s as if they’re candles flickering, and all it will take is a mere whisper to extinguish them.

Jon insists all this means is that they must hurry and get out while they can still walk, but Sansa isn’t so sure. Where would they go? Who would help four sickly young fugitives?

Something else bothers her, too. While it had occurred to her before that they might need to assume different identities once they went into hiding, now that they know the Lannisters have all their documentation, it feels wrong to leave it behind with them. But what can they do with those papers if they can’t go by their real names for fear of being discovered?

Each day, Petyr Baelish’s offer grows more and more tempting.

* * *

They continue to steal from the house by night, and plan and talk by day.

“That man is up to no good,” Jon grumbles. They’re in the sofa again, safe in each other’s arms. “He’s only Cersei’s replacement. Meant to keep us here until…”

“Until what?”

“I don’t know. I — ” His words are interrupted by a bout of coughing. They’ve all been coughing a lot recently. It’s become apparent that they need a doctor, and soon.

Sansa massages his back until the coughing subsides.

“I’m having trouble thinking,” Jon says weakly. “I’m telling you, we need to get out of here now.”

She thinks what they need is help, but she doesn’t say it. Jon hates Baelish, and although she doesn’t like him either, she feels they have little choice but to trust him.

But that’s not what Jon wants to hear. “It’s all right,” she tells him. “We’ll figure it out.”

At first they thought they might find some clues around the house, something that would prove what Baelish was saying was true, or indicate what his purpose was, or what Cersei was planning for them. But weeks of searching have yielded nothing so far.

All they have is this: Baelish must have deduced they meant to escape because he’s a smart man with plain common sense (as Jon put it, they’re four orphans who’ve lost a brother and have been locked up in here for years with nothing to do… What else could they want but to escape?). They know Cersei knows they don’t trust her anymore because she never visits anymore, nor does she bother to bring them anything they might need. It’s as if she’s given up on them. And the only reason they can think of that would explain why the Lannisters are letting them see someone outside their family, unsupervised, and so far into their captivity is that Petyr Baelish is really meant to lower their guard.

Somehow, what the Lannisters are doing reminds her of a cat toying with his prey.

Sighing, she retreats into the safe haven of Jon’s arms, desperate to forget. He kisses the top of her head and holds her close to him, and Sansa tries not to remember the last time they were so close. But it’s impossible, and she feels her skin growing warmer.

That night was the happiest of her life, and she hates that the memory of it is tainted by shame and fear. Perhaps those feelings were inevitable, even without Joanna Lannister’s influence. They haven’t talked about it, but Sansa knows it’s on both of their minds. For although they may still embrace and touch each other, there’s an unspoken tension in the air. But maybe she can fix that.

She hasn’t kissed Jon since then. It might not be fair of her to do so now, but her pulse quickens at the mere thought of it. Their eyes meet, and Sansa pauses, waiting for any sign of discomfort from him. Finding none, she leans in and presses her lips against his.

It’s an impossibly soft, feather-light kiss, nothing like the ones they’ve shared before. For a moment Sansa fears he will pull away —she wouldn’t blame him if he did— until Jon draws her closer to him and deepens the kiss.

They’re so wrapped up in each other they don’t hear the tell-tale creak of the floorboards as someone climbs up the stairs leading up to the attic.

“What are you doing?” Arya asks them, in a voice that’s part disgust, part curiosity.

Jon and Sansa break apart at once, so shocked they’re both unable to utter a single word in their defense. Arya is too old by now and too smart to be fooled by any lie they might come up with, anyway.

Shame, Sansa’s old nemesis, comes rushing back to her. Her cheeks burn with it and her stomach roils. Why is it she can forget all about the world when she and Jon are alone, only for the world to come crashing down on them like a wave when they’re not?

She’s suddenly aware of her lips, swollen from kissing; her hair, tousled by Jon’s hands; the heat emanating from her body; the sound of her heartbeat. She prays Arya does not notice any of this.

If she does, she keeps it to herself. She frowns and says, “Bran is acting weird.”

Jon and Sansa are on their feet at once.

When they reach Bran, he’s hyperventilating. Sansa rushes to his side and puts her hands on his face, only to find that his forehead is covered in sweat, and his skin is hot to the touch. He seems far away, as if he’s gone somewhere they can’t reach him.

“Bran!” she cries, alarmed. “Bran, it’s okay.”

Jon sits down on the bed on Bran’s other side. “It’s okay, Bran. Just breathe.”

Slowly, Bran begins to calm down. Tears run down his cheeks as his breathing slows.

“I remember. I remember. I remember,” he keeps saying.

Sansa takes him into her arms and rocks him gently, as she would a baby. As she used to do with Rickon. She and Jon exchange a look.

“What do you remember, Bran?” Jon asks him softly.

“Falling.”

Sansa feels cold all over. This is it, she thinks. He’s finally recovered his memories from that horrible night.

“The things we do for love, he said. And then he pushed me. That man that looks like Cersei. All because I heard… I heard… ”

Sansa holds him more tightly. She’s not sure whether it’s him who’s shivering or whether it’s her.

Bran’s blue eyes are huge when he says, “I heard them say this is all for revenge. Keeping us here. They  _ hate  _ us. It was Tywin Lannister’s idea to lock us in here, all because we’re Starks and he had some kind of grudge. And they won’t stop until we’re dead and they have Winterfell.”

Dread settles over the room like a fog, enveloping them in darkness.

“Dead?” Sansa repeats.

“How would they even get Winterfell?” Jon asks.

“One of them is going to marry Sansa,” Bran tells them, his face white and his eyes unfocused. Sansa feels herself pale too as a cold finger touches her spine. “They have a lawyer and a priest already.”

“Then why haven’t they married me off yet?” she asks, her heart beating so wildly she fears it will take flight. “And what are they planning for the rest of you?”  _ They’re killing them, and then me _ , she thinks. _ They won’t stop until we’re dead _ , Bran said.

But Bran has run out of answers. The effort of recalling his buried memories has left him drained. Sansa lets Arya comfort him and turns to Jon, whose face mirrors her despair.

“Marriage,” she repeats, and then a laugh bursts out of her. Before she knows it, she’s laughing hysterically. “To one of these awful men…” Her knees are weak, and for a moment she sways, only for Jon to catch her in an embrace.

“We won’t let that happen,” Jon whispers into her ear. “We’re getting out of here. Right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your love, encouragement, and support! as usual this is a little short, but since next chapter is the last one, that'll be longer.
> 
> btw, i made a playlist for this fic. you can listen to it here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3gf3WttO3r12lG3QmaW6fO


	17. Ashes like snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter, folks! sorry for the wait!

Planning their escape takes them the rest of the day. By the time night comes they are bundles of nervous energy, but at least they feel prepared for what is to come. Everyone has been given a role to play and tasks to carry out, and for the first time since their confinement began, they’re united not by misery, but by a shared sense of purpose.

Knowing these are the last hours Sansa will spend in this room, in this house, fills her with a strange sort of pain. Her heart aches as she takes in their domain: the sad, threadbare curtains, always drawn; the beds with their hard mattresses and filthy duvets; the lamps they barely used, accustomed to moving in the dark as they were. She even regards Bran’s sickly pet rats with a sense of nostalgia — who knows who will feed them candy once they’re gone.

Most of all, she surveys the attic. The crooks and crannies where they made their nests, the trunks of discarded junk they used to play with, the barre Jon installed for her so that she could practice ballet. Jon’s record player, Arya’s dummy, even the places Baby Rickon liked to play in (a tear rolls down her cheek then, but Sansa wipes it away).

And of course, the mattress where she spent the best night of her life. It’s incredible that she was both so miserable and so happy in this place, but she was.

They grew up here, whether they liked it or not: surrounded by dust and mold and decay, abandoned by all. And though it makes her angry, knowing so much was taken from them in all these years, it also gives Sansa strength. She survived once, and she will do it again.

They pack lightly, taking only what they’re certain they can carry. Sansa leaves Arya in charge of their packing, although she makes a mental note to check what she packed later, in secret. In the meantime, she and Jon plan and plot for what feels like an eternity.

When they emerge from the attic, tired but resolute, it’s already nighttime. Dinner has come and gone, and if she noted their absence, Joanna Lannister made no comment to Arya and Bran. They might as well be one of the rats for all she cared.

The rats themselves are not well. Bran is cradling one in his hands when they come down, his face taut with emotion. It’s an expression Sansa hasn’t seen in his face in a while.

“What’s wrong, Bran?” she asks him gently, sitting down next to him in his bed and putting her arm around him.

Bran shows her the rat without a word. Sansa swallows and ignores her disgust. She stares.

The animal is dead.

“It’s not the only one,” Bran says gravely. “They’re all dead or dying.”

“I’m sorry, love,” she says sincerely. A part of her can’t feel but be relieved, though. She knows Bran wanted to take his pets with them, but they can’t. It’s simply impossible.

She doesn’t stop to wonder why the rats are dead, too busy with the preparations for their departure.

* * *

After they pack what little food they have, Jon and Sansa leave the room quiet as mice. Without thinking, Sansa grabs his hand and they walk in silence, holding hands, until they reach the floor below.

“This is where we part ways,” Jon tells her, looking her in the eye. His are grey and tired, old eyes in a young face. His thumbs trace circles on Sansa’s cheeks, and for a second she thinks he will kiss her. He doesn’t. “Be safe.”

“You too.” Sansa swallows, watches him go, and, unable to bear it a moment longer, whispers, “I love you.”

At first she doesn’t think he’s heard. But Jon turns around slowly, his face breaking into a grin. “I love you too.”

But it’s not the right time for confessions and kisses, and they both know it. With one long, final glance at Jon, Sansa whirls around and leaves. Her footsteps take her to Tywin Lannister’s (now Cersei Lannister’s, she supposes) study. It’s a place she’s been to often with Jon, in their attempts to locate their missing paperwork. She doesn’t think she’ll be lucky this time, but they agreed that they would try.

So she does her best to look around, opening drawers and cabinets, rifling through their contents. She’s about to give up when she stumbles upon a locked box. A chill runs through her: she knows in her bones this is where their documentation is hidden. Now if only she had a key, or something to break the lock with…

“Looking for this?” a voice asks behind her.

Sansa doesn’t have time to be shocked or scared. She doesn’t react when Cersei Lannister steps closer, holding a key between her slender white fingers. All Sansa can think of is Jon, and her siblings, and the plan.

“You’ve disappointed me, Sansa,” Cersei continues, edging even closer. “You used to be such a good girl…”

Without thinking, Sansa grabs a letter opener and brandishes it at her. She is getting out of this place, no matter what, and she’s no longer frightened of Cersei. She  _ isn’t _ .

“I grew up,” Sansa says, voice quivering, pointing the letter opener at Cersei. “Give me the key.”

“Or what? You’ll cut my throat?” Cersei laughs out loud. “Please. You don’t have it in you.” Her expression turns serious, even deadly. “How did you get out of the room?”

Sansa’s grip around the letter opener tightens, but she says nothing. She eyes the big grandfather clock behind Cersei, and tries to think. By now everyone is probably in position, except for her. She was supposed to get out if she didn’t find the papers immediately, but instead she delayed, wasting precious time. And now she’s been found.

It doesn’t matter, she thinks. Cersei only knows  _ she _ ’s out of the room, she doesn’t know the rest of them are. If she can keep her distracted long enough, the others might stand a chance.

“Why did you lock us up?” she asks, and tears come to her eyes as she remembers that terrible night when they learned of their parents and Robb’s deaths and everything changed. “ _ Why _ ?”

Cersei shows no sign of being moved by her tears or her pleas. Her face is a cold, unwavering mask as she answers, “I told you, we were protecting you, Sansa. You had no family save for that Baelish. Only us. Now give me that and go back to your room, and I might show you mercy.”

Sansa shakes her head and walks towards Cersei, never letting go of her pathetic weapon. “No. No more lies. Tell me the truth, now!”

“The truth?” she laughs. “Yes, I suppose I owe you that much. It doesn’t matter, anyway.” There’s fire in her eyes when she meets Sansa’s. “The truth is that I  _ hate  _ you. All of you. As did my Father, as does my mother. Your family ruined mine. Your cousins’ whore of a mother ruined my life!”

“Aunt Lyanna?” Sansa repeats.

“You truly are stupid. I was meant to marry Rhaegar, but she seduced him. She took him from me and shamed all of us, and then she had the gall to accuse me of terrible things.” Sansa could imagine what those terrible things might be.  _ Jaime _ . “And it’s not only my life your family’s ruined.”

“Who else’s?” Sansa asks, although she can already guess.

“Why, Baelish’s, of course. He loved your mother. The little man even thought he could ask your Grandfather for her hand, and when your uncle Brandon taught him a lesson in humility he took it upon himself to take revenge. Tell me, are you still eating the candy?”

“What? The candy?”

Cersei smiles. It’s an awful, cruel smile. “That’s what I thought. You won’t be alive for much longer, anyway, so we might as well have a glass of wine. You’re old enough now. What do you say?”

“You’re mad.” Sansa realizes it’s true as she says it. Cersei doesn’t look like she used to: she’s gained weight, her hair is disheveled and dry, and she reeks of alcohol. “You’ve gone mad.”

“It’s this house, this family that’s mad. Not me.” She advances towards the desk, ignoring Sansa and her letter opener, and pours two glasses of wine. She offers one to Sansa, who shakes her head in revulsion. “As you like.” She begins to drink, her throat bare for Sansa to attack if she had the courage. But she does not. Her courage only amounts to this small defiance, this last act of rebellion that might save her family.

It will have to be enough.

“Bran. You pushed him, didn’t you?” she asks. There’s a lump in her throat. “And Rickon… what happened to him? Did you even take him to a Hospital?”

Cersei takes a seat and sips from her cup. “Of course not, you fool. We couldn’t. We had a doctor see him quietly, but by then…” She shrugs. “I did not like it any more than you,” she says. “As for your cripple brother, it was Jaime who pushed him, not me.”

Sansa struggles to swallow her rage. She needs to distract her, keep her talking, not lunge at her and attack her like she wants to do now. “What did you mean by what you said about the candy?”

But Sansa already knows. They were always feeding the rats their candy after all.

“Baelish’s idea. We don’t need the cripple or the little girl, so they can gob up all that candy and waste away and we’ll just keep the two heirs alive. Then we will take Winterfell, and that bastard’s inheritance.”

“We will never give them to you!”

Cersei’s expression hardens. “Yes, you will. Or you will find that I’m not in the mood to save your siblings’ pathetic lives.”

“Their lives?”

“You’re like a bird, parroting back everything you hear. Yes, little dove, their lives. The candy contains poison. They’re going to die, and soon, unless they see a doctor.”

“You’re a monster.”

Cersei continues to drink her wine. “I am what they made me. Just like you.”

“I’m  _ nothing  _ like you!”

She’s distracted by the sound of the clock striking midnight. It’s time. If she doesn’t get out now, she’ll be doomed.

_ No _ , Sansa thinks.  _ We need our documentation. We need those papers if we live. We need Winterfell. _

“Give me the key,” she says to Cersei, almost calmly, “and I won’t hurt you.”

Cersei barks out a laugh. “Please, this is too entertaining. Do go on. Threaten me some more.”

Sansa gathers all her courage and thinks of every time this woman has hurt her and her family, lied to them, kept them locked up for years. Then, taking a deep breath, she lunges herself at her. Cersei’s eyes widen in surprise when the letter opener stabs her in the chest, somewhere below her left clavicle. Sansa lets go of it and seizes the chance to take the key.

Cersei makes a grab for her, but in her desperation, Sansa is faster. She takes a hold of the box and runs towards the door and then climbs down, down, and down all those steps she once took to get into that room. It’s night, so the hallways are deserted.

Then she smells the smoke. She tells herself not to panic, and runs faster, as fast as her malnourished, unexercised body will allow. She’s still clutching the box, but it’s so heavy, and she knows Cersei is somewhere behind her, and has probably alerted the servants as to her escape. She begins to cough, the smoke getting into her lungs, her eyes, her nose. She tries to open the box as she runs, but it takes her several tries.

When she finally does, she breathes in relief. All the documents are there. She clutches them to her chest and drops the box, and then continues to run. She looks over her shoulder a couple of times, but no one is chasing her.

Meanwhile, the manor is quickly catching fire. Orange flames lick the walls and dance on the ceiling, and black smoke emerges from every orifice. In the courtyard, ashes are falling like grey snowflakes, a beautiful sight. It’s an even bigger fire than they’d planned. 

Finally, just as her legs are beginning to give way, she hears their voices, and it’s the sweetest sound in all the world.

“Sansa! Sansa!”

Jon and Arya are ahorse, pulling a wagon that contains Bran and their luggage. It’s been years since they’ve ridden a horse, but it seems they still remember how. Sansa climbs onto the wagon and sags down next to Bran, still clinging to the documents for dear life.

She closes her eyes, still smelling the smoke, and now hearing desperate screaming too.

* * *

When she comes to there’s a dull, stabbing pain in her arm, and the smell of smoke has been replaced by the smell of antiseptic, while the sharp lights of the fire have been substituted by white electric ones. She’s not moving in an uncomfortable wagon, but instead she lies in a hard mattress, her body feeling like it’s drifting miles away.

Sansa blinks and breathes hard, suddenly scared. She’s in a hospital.

“Easy,” a male voice says. He sounds familiar somehow. But not a Lannister, she realizes at once. “Easy, girl. You’re safe.” He speaks as if he’s always clenching his jaw, and his voice is rough.

“Your siblings are next to you,” another man adds, almost fatherly. His voice is gentler, like the sea crashing on the shore. He almost sounds as if he’s admonishing the other man. “You will all be okay, I promise.”

Sansa’s eyes moisten with tears, but she refuses to let them fall before these strangers. Her fingers tighten around the sheets. “Where?” she manages. Her throat is dry and her voice is hoarse.

“Lannisport Hospital,” the man with the clenched teeth explains.

“Was the closest hospital, and you needed emergency care,” the other man explains, almost apologetically. Then, without her having to ask, he launches into an explanation of how the two of them found them on the fields near Casterly Rock, passed out, after having looked for them for quite some time. How they were poisoned and malnourished and underdeveloped and in need of urgent care. How the manor burned down to the ground and there were no survivors. “I am Davos Seaworth, P.I., and this is Stannis Baratheon, an acquaintance of your father’s…”

Sansa nods. She remembers now. She saw him at that party with Jon, but he did not see her.

She tunes out the rest of their tale and soon drifts off to sleep.

* * *

She wakes to the feeling of a hand grasping hers.

_ Jon _ , she knows right away. She squeezes his fingers and gives him a smile. He already looks much better. His hair is shinier, his cheeks rounder, his skin brighter.

“You look well,” she tells him. “How are you?”

There are stars in his eyes when he tells her, “You’re a damn hero.” He looks around him before he gathers her hands in his and kisses them. “You saved us when you found those documents, you know that? Now we can go back home. Get everything back.”

Sansa smiles. “I’m glad.” She kisses his hands too. “But so are you. Starting that fire was brave.”

His face falls. “I killed people.”

“It was them or you.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. But Sansa has a lifetime to convince him now.

“Bran and Arya?”

“Recovering. Doctors say they will be alright.”

Sansa feels as if a weight has been lifted off her shoulders. The weight of the world used to reside there, crushing her, and now it’s gone. Cersei is gone. All the Lannisters are gone. The room and the attic are gone. Casterly Rock is gone. She is finally, finally free.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” she asks Jon.

He offers her his hand, and they walk out into the sunshine together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed the ending. also, i might write an epilogue, but i'm not sure yet. we'll see :)
> 
> You can find me at:  
> twitter: @[witcherology](https://twitter.com/witcherology)  
> tumblr: @[witcherology](https://witcherology.tumblr.com/)


	18. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks in the aftermath.

The world is stark white when she awakes. Snow is falling softly, gently, sweetly, filling the air with the smell of winter. Sansa stretches in bed and seeks out Jon, but finds only cold sheets where he’d been. Still groggy from sleep, she sits up, blinking owlishly, and looks out the window. The snow keeps falling outside.

“Jon?” she calls.

There is no reply.

Suddenly afraid — it is an old fear, one that has dulled over the years, but that is nevertheless always there — she throws back the covers and jumps out of bed, making for the stairs.

Then the sound of laughter and the smell of cookies fills her senses, and she relaxes. Nothing is wrong. They are home in Winterfell, and all is well.

They are all in the kitchen in their pajamas, baking and cracking jokes, and if only Rickon, Robb, and their parents had been there, it would have been a scene out of the past. Arya has batter on her cheeks, Jon is brandishing a spoon, and Bran is taking the first batch of cookies out of the oven. Sansa leans on the doorframe, watching them fondly.

Jon is the first to spot her. His eyes soften immediately.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says gently. “How did you sleep?”

Sansa smiles in response.

“Ugh!” Arya exclaims. “Gross! Knock it off, both of you!” She grabs a handful of batter and squashes it all over Jon’s face, both of them squealing in delight.

Sansa and Bran exchange amused looks.

“I made you coffee,” Bran tells her quietly.

“Thank you, Bran,” Sansa tells her little brother before pouring herself a cup. He’s improved drastically over the years, helped in great part by his therapy dog, Summer.

They all have them, actually. Sansa has Lady, Jon has Ghost, and Arya has Nymeria. It was Davos who insisted they get them, though Stannis was against it. But Davos was right about them doing them all good, and they’ve been their constant companions over the years.

They still see them from time to time. Davos and Stannis. Although it’s been a while since Sansa inherited Winterfell and Jon came into his money, they’ve kept in touch. It was Davos and Stannis who helped them that terrible day they escaped, who searched for them for years, who made sure they got the care they needed, who put Petyr Baelish in prison, who helped them rehire the help that had had to leave Winterfell following their parents’ deaths.

Thanks to them, they’d been able to track down Old Nan, Hodor, Luwin, Jory, and all the rest, and now they were back with them. If any of them think it odd that Sansa and Jon sleep in the same room and occasionally hold hands, they keep it to themselves, especially now that the two of them are older.

Bran and Arya are now in university, but they still come home for the holidays and sometimes for the weekends too. Arya attends a foreign school in Braavos, so it is harder for her to make it back, but when she does, her eyes light up as she regales them with tales of her adventures in the canals of Braavos and all the new friends she’s made. As for Bran, he stayed in the North, and even made it into the Bloodraven program. Despite their years of confinement, they both remain bright kids.

Jon and Sansa didn’t attend university. They felt no need to. All they wanted was to be together, and home, and now that they have it, they are unable to let it go.

Still, they have managed to make new friends and make new lives for themselves.

Jon has met the rest of his biological family: his half-siblings Aegon and Rhaenys, his young aunt Daenerys and his uncle Viserys. He gets along swimmingly with the first three, as does Sansa. Daenerys spent time in Essos, so she and Arya became fast friends.

Sansa continues to practice ballet, eventually even performing at the local theatre. It is there that she meets Alys Karstark and Jeyne Poole, and the three become the best of friends right away.

Jon begins to learn guitar and reconnect with his old friends: Sam, Pyp, Satin, and Grenn. Sansa’s favorite nights are when her friends and Jon’s gather at the house for movie or game night, or just for dinner. She never remembers her pain then, never has nightmares on those nights.

Sansa muses on all of this as she sips her coffee. It’s a good life she’s made for herself, for her family. After all the pain and heartache, she is finally  _ living _ . She’s finally happy.

And as she looks at Jon, she knows she will be for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand we're done! i hope you've enjoyed this story! thanks to everyone who supported this fic through kudos, bookmarks, and comments. it means the world to me and it encouraged me to keep writing. ily all.
> 
> you can follow me on twitter @dragnstne and on tumblr @witcherology
> 
> you can also read my new jonsa au here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296201

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at:  
> twitter: @[witcherology](https://twitter.com/witcherology)  
> tumblr: @[witcherology](https://witcherology.tumblr.com/)


End file.
